The Misfits
by Calebski
Summary: A place for all those little bits of something that don't belong anywhere else. One-shots, multi pairings, no pairings, prompts and the beginnings of story ideas.
1. Thrice Defied

_A/N: I recently opened up prompts (now closed) and when I started working on them I realised I hadn't posted anything from the last time I did so (outside of Tumblr). Most of the new prompt requests will also be posted as part of this fic collection, though some may get posted as a stand-alone story if the narrative develops a mind of its own, which it often does. _

_Lovely madeforuslcv requested a James and Lily pairing with her prompt, unfortunately, things took a little turn in my brain and this was what came out :/_

* * *

**Thrice defied**

Prompt: [James x Lily] 'Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…'  
for madeforuslcv

* * *

Peter shivered as he headed towards Malfoy Manor. He had done what his Lord had asked, demanded, but he felt no better. He had expected the heavy set of his shoulders and the sick feeling in his stomach to evaporate once he knew he could return to the circle with good news… but instead… he felt worse.

He tried to convince himself that it was already too late for James and Lily, that the prophecy meant they couldn't live whatever he did, but it brought him no comfort.

He hoped he would get lucky, for once, and be spared the horror of being part of the team being sent to their house. Even if it were so, it would be a small reprieve. He might not ever be the one to hold the wand that ended them, but by allowing them to make him the secret keeper, he had snuffed out their lives as much as anyone else.

He had betrayed them, betrayed the people he had once loved more dearly than his only family. The blood might have only been metaphysical, but Peter knew he would never stop seeing it on his hands.

* * *

"Wormtail…"

His Master's voice called to Peter in cut-glass tones. Once he had been charmed by Tom Riddle, but not anymore. Now all he felt was fear.

The nausea inside Peter grew and grew until he could barely hold back the continuous rush of bile in his mouth. When he had joined the Death Eaters, he had expected to take his place as one of the brotherhood, one of the chosen. And so it had been, but the hollow pretence had quickly faded. He had wanted it to be like it had been with the Marauders before his boyhood chums had grown up and left him behind.

Now the use of his nickname, given to him by those that loved him, and spoken in harsh, patronising tones, served as a reminder for how far he had stirred from his original path.

Peter struggled not to shake as he stepped forward into the middle of the masked faces and dropped to one knee. It was time.

Despite the anticipation of the monster masquerading as a man in front of him and the braying dogs at his back, Peter paused. Long enough for the guilt to almost overwhelm him, but there was something there, in the back of his mind, a spark of some kind. It was a little voice, one almost drowned out by the oppressive darkness, but to his guilty conscious, it sounded a lot like Lily.

'Peter, there is still time. Peter, you can be saved.'

"Master, forgive me, I have failed," Peter stuttered out in the loudest voice he could. "The Potter's would not change their secret keeper."There was silence for a long time until all there was pain.

* * *

'I do not stand for failure.'

His Master's words pinged around in Peter's mind as he stood outside the door to Sirius' flat. He hadn't been there for months, the gulf between himself and his friends had been growing more every week and with no one more than Sirius.

Peter had loved Sirius Black, loved him and hated him in almost equal measure for as long as he could remember. He realised most of his hatred stemmed from jealousy, and that it wasn't fair to feel the way he did, but he hadn't been able to control it. People loved Sirius as soon as they met him, he could be loud, obnoxious and petty and people didn't care because he was handsome and charismatic. When Sirius was on form, Peter felt as if he didn't exist; he felt invisible.

The last few times they had met, Peter hadn't been able to stop himself from lashing out with a few bitter words. He wasn't even sure Sirius had even noticed. But he didn't have time to worry about whether Sirius knew something was wrong, or what his reception would be like.

The Dark Lord… Voldemort would be summoning him again soon when his blind rage had faded enough to punish him again, or to give him another task. He wouldn't live long enough to fail again. Peter needed to act now if he had any hope of achieving what he needed to — saving his friends, saving himself.

Peter raised a trembling hand and knocked. He knew he must have looked a mess and it was confirmed in his friend's expression when the former heir to the house of Black opened the door.

"Wormtail? What the fuck happened mate?"

Peter leant against the door jam and closed his eyes, lights were flashing inside his head, and he wasn't sure how much longer he had before he collapsed.

"Padfoot," he forced out, even though the name almost made him cry with shame. "I need your help."


	2. Diamonds

**Diamonds**

Prompt: [Harry x Daphne] Diamonds  
for gwen-devilliers

* * *

"Diamonds?" Harry asked as he stared at the ring between his fingers as if it might be able to answer his desperate query. "Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm not sure," Hermione sighed. "I told you, multiple times, that I was the very last person you should take ring shopping." Hermione paused as Luna - who was also along for the ride and ill-equipped for the task at hand - added a gaudy, eighth ring to her left hand. "Well, maybe not quite the last, but I'm still not useful. What would I know about what Daphne would like in a ring?"

"You get along now, don't you?" Harry asked with an unexpected hint of panic. _Had he somehow failed to observe that his best friend and his girlfriend hated each other?_

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course we do, we both love you, Harry, so we try. But we casually like each other, we're not close. I have no idea what she would like as her engagement ring. You should have asked Draco or Blaise." Harry made a face. "You could have asked Theo if the others were not an option."

Harry placed the ring back on the ostentatious pillow the assistant was still holding out and gave her an apologetic shrug. He took a short look around the room before he went back to looking at the cabinet he had been returning to all morning.

"You know I would never ask Malfoy for help, especially not with this. Can you imagine how insufferably smug he would have been."

"Yes," Hermione replied seriously, "with great ease, smug is one of Draco's specialities. But, smug or not, he would have made sure you got a good ring. He might have been tempted to pull a prank, but his general snobbiness would have prevented him from letting you buy subpar jewellery."

Harry eyed the significant rock on Hermione's finger and conceded there was nothing 'subpar' about her engagement ring. When Ron had seen it for the first time, after the ferret had unexpectedly proposed to their best friend, he had asked where the figure skaters that came with it were.

Harry rubbed a hand through his hair and tried not to panic. _This was all supposed to be on gut feeling, wasn't it? _He was supposed to know Daphne so well that he would know exactly what the right ring was without even trying. _What did it mean if he didn't know? Did it imply he didn't love her enough? Was it a sign she would say no? _

"Harry," Luna's voice chimed from the other side of the shop. Seemingly unconcerned by his dilemma, she was placing a second necklace around herself and dancing in front of the mirror to watch it sparkle.

"Luna, I'm a little busy right now."

"I can see that," she replied, though Harry didn't know what she meant as she wasn't looking at him. "Why don't you just buy the vintage sapphire and diamond one you keep looking at, and then we can go to lunch."

Harry stared down at the ring and wished he didn't feel so indecisive. "How do I know it's the right one? I don't even know why I keep looking at it."

"Of course you do, it's the same blue as her eyes," Luna said as if she was talking to a small child before swapping the necklace for a less dramatic one.

Harry looked again, and sure enough Luna was right, nestled between two large diamonds was a sapphire the size of his thumbnail in the precisely the same mystifyingly captivating blue of Daphne's eyes.

Harry smiled. "Can we take this one?" he asked in the general direction of the counter.

"Oh, thank Merlin," Hermione muttered. "Come on, Luna, let's start getting you out of all of this stuff."

Harry barely noticed. He had a full five minutes of relief until he realised he still had to plan a proposal.


	3. The Fantasies of Children

**The Fantasies of Children**

Prompt: [Percy x Hermione]  
for legioninabox (via Tumblr)

* * *

People that dismiss the fantasies of children often remain shortsighted to the potential futures they hint at. When Charlie Weasley was five, he got told off by his mum for terrorising the local cat. They hadn't been allowed pets when they were growing up for what the locals would have referred to as _obvious reasons_.

Charlie had been caught making a beeline to follow said cat for most of the afternoon. His exploits had taken him up a tree and into the gardens of several of their neighbours. During the distraction, he had managed to ruin a new pair of trousers and make a life long enemy of Mrs Tabitha Crake, the cat's owner and local battleaxe.

As the old woman had rambled on and on about her beloved pet being 'bullied', Molly had apologised and apologised and twisted her apron into her careworn hands. When Mrs Crake had finally finished, Molly had hastily shut the door and sagged into the back of it. She couldn't fathom what had happened. Charlie had always been so kind to animals.

No one had _asked_ Charlie what he had been doing. By that time, he had been a child of many, and his parents were too busy trying to keep them all alive and fed to worry about something after it had past. If anyone had asked him, they would have found out that Charlie had been playing 'doctor'. He had watched the cat as it had limped through their garden and had then spent the whole day trailing after it, trying to get a better look at its paw.

No one had known about the true meaning of that incident, even Charlie himself had forgotten, and yet when he had grown up and decided that he was going to leave the UK and work on a dragon reserve, no one was surprised. _That was just Charlie_. Everyone had known how he would be for a very long time. He had never wanted to simply study wild things, he had wanted to be one, and so that was what he became.

-/-/-/-

When James Potter was seven, he had rounded up all of the children that came over for his mandatory 'pureblood playdates' and decided that they would play Aurors. When his father had found out that he had 'interrogated' the Lestrange brothers and then looked them in the pantry, Fleamont had been furious. James had received his first serious telling off that evening and had been summoned to his father's study to be reminded that his behaviour was not how Potter's treated their guests.

James had left the library in a quiet huff, fitting of his young years, seething that no one had asked him about his game. He'd been so desperate to tell his father how he had the current record for catching the bad guys.

No one had been surprised when James became an Auror, even considering he was so young when he did so. His mother fretted and tried to cover it by telling him she was proud, but he knew, he could see it in her eyes. But even though she was frightened, she was prepared, she had known the day was coming. _That was just James_. He believed in fairness, right and wrong, he was as brave as they came. He wanted to do his duty. So they gave him a badge that he wore with pride as he raced off into the world to do what was needed.

-/-/-/-

As a child, Percy Weasley didn't get shouted at. He was polite, mild-mannered, used his indoor voice when he was supposed to, put his clothes away and practised his reading. Unlike the other children that he met, he didn't know how to play dragons or Auror's or anything else that would ruin his clothing or rumple his hair.

When he was twelve, and he understood the world around him a bit better, Percy wondered if his calm outlook meant he had no imagination. He had dreams, but they were different than the ones his brothers shared. He wanted to make a difference just as much as the rest but his aspirations were more subtle.

When he was fifteen, Percy asked his father if he could get him a hierarchy chart from work. When Arthur had shrugged and said that his department 'didn't really go in for all that', Percy had replied that he wanted one for the _entire_ ministry.

His father had eventually delivered, like he always did if it was in his power, and Percy had studied the intricately drawn-out matrix structure of the ministry of magic for a whole week straight.

The second week he started making a list of what he would improve if he were ever given a chance.

* * *

The summer of Bill and Fleur's wedding, the Burrow was fuller than ever, and despite the crossed words that had been growing and stagnating between himself and his father, Percy weathered the rebuke and came to the family home to join in with the festivities.

Typically, the noise was pouring out from the kitchen when he arrived and Percy braced himself as well as he could before drawing himself up and opening the door. He walked into madness. He had no idea what the original gathering plan had been, but now little pockets of people were all over the place, eating, drinking and in some cases singing to their heart's content.

A little way from all of the ongoing chaos was Hermione. While the others were working their way through the considerable stock of alcohol, she was bent over a piece of parchment thoughtfully. As Percy moved closer, he thought it might have been a list, but she saw him and seemed to panic a moment before she folded it all up and put it away.

Percy would not have characterised himself as a social person; however, drawn to her calming presence in the face of the alternative, he sat down next to her. He found he was content to observe the happy chatter and not really be part of it, Hermione must have too as barely a word was spoken between them as the night got more and more raucous.

As the drinks flowed, the discussions around them grew more whimsical. People exchanged memories of the past that brought forth much laughter. 'Do you remember when I broke my arm that time?' 'What was that game we used to play?' That sort of thing.

"What did you do?" he asked Hermione suddenly and she jumped, no doubt surprised as he had barely uttered a word since entering the room.

"I'm sorry?" she replied, clearly not having tracked the conversation going on around them.

"As a kid, what games did you play?" he pressed, already feeling stupid for saying anything. It was just that it had occurred to him as they were sitting together that if anyone could have understood him as a child, it would have been the witch sat next to him.

Hermione flushed, and Percy tilted his head to the side to regard her carefully.

"I… I used to play office. I went to my parent's dental practice and reorganised their filing system," she finished in a whisper.

Hermione twisted her fingers together, and Percy realised that she was nervous, as if she had just admitted a terrible secret. It made him lean forward, turning his back on what was going on in the room.

"When I was ten, I created a form for people to fill in when they wanted to request anything for the shopping list."

She laughed, and for the first time in a year, Percy relaxed. "What do you want to do when you grow up, Hermione?"

"I want to make a difference," she responded immediately.

* * *

It was a year before he was brave enough to tell her just how much of a difference she made. Battleworn and covered in soot Percy wrenched her from the chared grounds of the Great Hall and pressed his lips against her limp hair.

"You're safe, Hermione, you're safe," he soothed.

When the hall began to empty, and the story of what she had done to her parents came tumbling out of her lips, he offered his flat as a place for her to rest.

She agreed.

She never left.


	4. Diamonds - Part Two

_A/N: this was suggested after I posted Diamonds and I couldn't help myself._

* * *

**Diamonds - Part Two**

Prompt: could we get a shot at Draco and Hermione's proposal story in this universe?  
for MadeupMeeple

* * *

"It's preposterous," Hermione muttered while shaking her head and Draco's hesitant, hopeful smile faltered.

"Preposterous?" he asked in a strangled voice, and Hermione's head changed direction. It was no longer absently toing and froing from side to side. Now it was nodding, violently.

"Yes. It's ridiculous, insane, and not to mention almost mind-blowingly excessive."

"Excessive?" Draco asked, shouting now. _Who did the bloody witch think she was? _He pulled himself up off his knee with a cursory wipe of his freshly laundered trousers and glared down at her. "And what exactly, my dear _sweet_ love, is _excessive_ about me wanting to marry you?"

Hermione looked startled for a moment and then she blinked several times. She looked up from the ring box into Draco's eyes and then back down again.

"Nothing," she admitted softly, moving to step towards him. "There is nothing excessive about that at all. Though, a little unexpected maybe. I wasn't sure that you would… that you would want to-"

Hermione looked awkward, and Draco got the sense she was reverting into that insecure place she disappeared into sometimes, where he was the boy that had shouted at her, and she was the girl that wouldn't have tempted him if he was on fire, and she was in possession of the last water on earth.

Draco felt his temper deflate, which conversely, made it reignite again. She didn't deserve him calming down. He had every right to be as angry as he wanted.

He had planned it all perfectly to be just what Hermione would want. A lovely but not overly expensive dinner, at a beautiful but not flashy restaurant. A walk to her favourite used book store after desert to 'walk off their meal' where he had brought her a book that came from the money he would have liked to spend earlier in the evening, but he knew how to pick his battles. At least he thought he had. Then he'd come back to her flat and opened a nice bottle of wine - one he had hidden there the week before - then got down on one knee.

No showiness, no audiences, no dramatic overtures and no flowery language. And she'd called it excessive.

"The ring Draco," Hermione finally said when it looked as if Draco might never speak again. "The ring is excessive."

Draco looked down at the jewellery he had chosen and could concede that it was a little on the large side, but what had she expected? Hermione had spent enough painful lunches with his mother to know what was regarded as 'everyday wear' in the Malfoy household, and it wasn't as if he would have brought her trash.

"The ring is perfectly in keeping with what would be expected of me," he replied rather crisply, trying his best not to sneer.

"But what about for me?"

Draco snorted. "If I had brought you anything less people would have said-"

Hermione sighed. "They would have said you were not bothering because I'm a Muggle-born, or that you gave me a trinket to keep getting into my knickers, but you had no interest in actually marrying me."

"Something like that," Draco agreed, beginning to feel slightly sick.

Hermione eyed the ring more speculatively for a moment and then her fingers reached out, coming close to retrieving it before Draco pressed the lid shut.

"Hermione," he implored softly, "you realise you haven't answered me yet, don't you?"

"Oh," Hermione replied, and Draco could see in seconds how the situation flashed before her eyes and then she looked guilty. "I'm so sorry, Draco. I was going to say yes immediately when I saw you kneeling there, and then you opened the box and nearly took my eye out with a diamond."

Draco tried to roll his eyes, he even attempted a smug look but he couldn't press his lips closed enough. He grinned, so full it was almost painful. Immediately, she said _immediately._ Logically he knew Hermione loved him; she wasn't exactly adept at hiding her emotions but still, _immediately_. Not 'after I've thought about it', not 'I have to consult my worthless friends', _immediately_.

He pulled the witch into his grasp and held her against his chest. Once she had settled Draco deftly pulled the ring out of the box and carefully placed it on her appropriate finger. Then he let out a sigh that had been building for the two years since she had walked out of a Hogwarts reunion to get some air, and he had followed her.

"I love you, you know?" Hermione said into his thick jumper, her words coming out muffled against the heavy knit. He'd worn it mainly because she'd said she liked it once. Draco wondered if she remembered that.

"I know. I love you too."

Hermione pulled away from him as much as Draco's greedy hands would allow and twisted her hand back and forth, so her new accessory caught the light. "I might learn to love it."

"You'd better," Draco said, rubbing her back. "I brought matching earrings."

She hit him in the chest and began a rant about his spending habits, but Draco barely listened. She had said yes. The evening has surpassed all of his excessive expectations.


	5. Muggle Dentistry

**Muggle Dentistry **

Hermione pressed her shoulders against the too white, sterile wall and tried to look detached and calm. It was difficult. Fenrir was scowling and as intimidating a presence as ever, despite him being prone in a well-worn dentists chair.

Now that they were in the tiny room, the only noise coming from the man cloaked in white cheerfully humming, she was no longer so sure this had been such a good idea.

Hermione had intended it to be a bit of a joke, something they would laugh about later, a small reminder to Fenrir that she was not to be dismissed and that she still had some bite about her, even if he was her Alpha.

When she had returned home the week before to find muddy boot prints trialling all through their small, neatly kept house, Hermione had been furious, even more so when Fenrir had failed to react to her nagging him about it.

'I don't know what you are so worked up about,' he had said, stepping forward to tower over her. He always did that when she got mad, backed her up against the nearest surface and put his arms out as if he could physically contain her anger.

Sometimes Hermione hated that the magic of their mate bond soothed her ruffled feathers. She was a person who enjoyed being nicely irritated to her heart's content, and when Fenrir was near, those emotions dulled. Their bond made her calmer, especially if they were touching, which, if Fenrir had anything to do with it, they usually were.

Moreso she hated that she couldn't blame it all on the mark in her neck. They were bonded certainly, but that wasn't all it was. Fenrir was her home. He could be rough, unrelenting and downright rude but he was also safe, cherishing and unexpectedly affectionate.

But this time she was pissed. So, when they had been talking about her parents a few nights later, and Fenrir was struggling to understand the Muggle concept of dentistry, an idea had formed in Hermione's mind.

'It's hard to explain,' she had said, reaching up to place a chaste kiss on his shoulder blade, hoping to distract him from the air of omission from her tone. 'I could always show you?'

Fenrir had taken her question like he took everything else, as a bit of a challenge. Hermione had rung up a local surgery when he had next gone away on a hunt, and now here they were, in a Muggle dental practice, with an enthusiastic dentist positively brimming with excitement over Fenrir's abnormal canines.

Ten minutes later, the man bustled out of the room grinning to himself and muttering about x-rays and immediately Hermione dropped her gaze to the white tiled floor as Fenrir's growl reverberated off the off white tiles.

He moved towards her leisurely like the baddies always did in films. He was confident that he did not need to rush to get his prey.

"I don't know what you're so worked up about," Hermione muttered in a deliberate repetition of his earlier words as his booted feet came into view.

"Point made, little mate," he murmured into her ear, "only now you have to play fair."

Hermione's head snapped up to see Fenrir grinning at her wickedly.

"Tomorrow I am going to show you what my father did for a living."

Hermione blinked. "But your dad was a sheep farmer. I get that entirely. There is no need for me to spend…"

Fenrir cut her off. "Tomorrow, mate."

* * *

Hermione ripped her fluffy white jumper out of the second bramble bush she had got caught up in and promptly collapsed onto her back, panting heavily.

When she heard the swish of Fenrir's robes approaching she didn't have enough energy left in her limbs to move, and so with little effort, and alarming speed, he was leaning over her, pinning her to the ground.

"That wasn't much fun little sheep," he said, smirking at her. "I expected you to get into the neighbouring field at least."

Fenrir had dragged them out into the middle of nowhere at just past dawn and deposited the fluffy jumper over her 'for warmth' before he started telling her about his father's job - things had got a little too interactive for Hermione's taste when he had told her to run.

"Sorry," Hermione huffed out, feeling anything but, "I wasn't expecting _role play_ today."

Fenrir waggled his eyebrows at her, "Is this what you think this is? Some kink I might have about devouring you?" Hermione gave him a stern look, and he dared to laugh.

"Nothing of the sort, this was about teaching you a lesson. I had that Muggle's hands in my mouth for the best part of an hour."

"I thought you liked having your teeth played with," Hermione responded coyly, reaching up to rub the pad of her thumb against his right fang, Fenrir ground against her warningly.

"Play nice, little mate," he admonished, "and say you're sorry."

"But what if I'm not?" she asked primly, stretching herself under him in an effort to distract him.

Fenrir's smile broadened across his face as his hand moved to Hermione's neck and ripped the jumper away from her skin.

"You will be."


	6. Veni Vidi Vici

**Veni Vidi Vici**

Prompt: [Draco x Hermione] Veni Vidi Vici  
for Anon

* * *

_Didn't they always say that hindsight was a glorious thing?_

Looking back at how it had all happened, Draco considered that no one could say that he hadn't tried to fight his feelings for Hermione Granger. He definitely had. Though, if he was honest, he had been refusing to acknowledge his feelings for a good deal longer than he cared to admit; maybe even as far back as when she had punched him in the face? Maybe. But all pretence - of ignorance or knowing resistance - fell apart on the last night of their trip together.

Pansy had organised a ridiculous weekend away ahead of her wedding to the Weasel (not that he was allowed to call him that anymore). Which meant a whole bunch of unwilling former Gryffindors and Slytherins were thrown together for 'team building activities'. Draco would rather have put pins in his eyes, but he had learned the hard way that you didn't just say no to Pansy, not if you wanted to live a quiet life. So he packed his expensive-looking trunk and resigned himself to bitching to Theo and Blaise whenever he had the chance.

Pansy could have won awards for 'organised fun' if such hellish things existed, and the first two days passed in a blur of sports and quizzes all underpinned with a fair amount of alcohol and sniggering at each other.

Draco discovered pretty quickly that Granger was the most competitive person he had ever met, especially when pitted against her closest friends, and even more so when the Weasel assumed - often loudly - that she couldn't do something.

On the last day, they arrived at a remote area of woodland, ready to take on a Muggle assault course. Granger was scared of heights, fast movement, wet equipment and most of all, failure, but she managed to put it all aside to win. Draco had never seen anymore more determined to prove someone wrong, and he was startled to realise that he was proud of her.

By the time they reached the final zip wire, Granger had mud smeared on her right cheek, and her hands were shaking, but her eyes were determined. So, Draco had kept his mouth shut to stop the comment he wanted to make about her ruined hair and instead he reached to attach the safety wire to her back securely. She would have had no hope of reaching it herself, and though she eyed him with a little mistrust, she didn't bat him away.

Draco tried to hide how his hands flexed afterwards, still feeling her slight waist against his palms. Theo had seen though. The bastard.

When Granger came into the bar after, by now totally dishevelled and yet somehow glowing, she slapped a hand on the table in front of the Weasel in a way that ensured she had the attention of the whole group.

"Veni Vidi Vici, Ronald," she shouted, with smug satisfaction seeping from every pore. "I came, I saw, and I bloody well conquered. Mine's a glass of prosecco."

Draco sighed as his head hit the wall behind him. He was _totally_ fucked.


	7. If Only I Could…

"**If Only I Could…"**

Prompt: [Hermione x Severus] "If only I could…"  
for for-witchcraft-and-wizardry

* * *

Hermione threw herself down onto her knees and instinctively pressed her hand against Professor Snape's throat. Voldemort had only just left the shack, and already her teacher's lips were beginning to turn blue.

"You have to hold on, Sir," she said, in a much more commanding tone than she would have thought she was capable of. Keeping her hand in place, she forced her other arm deep into her modified bag, desperately searching for something, _anything_ that might help.

"Mione…" Ron began, but she silenced him with a single look. They had argued over Professor Snape more than once during their time on the run. Hermione knew she should have been horrified by Ron's lack of sensitivity, to bring it up again now when the man was literally dying in front of them, but she didn't have the time.

A second later she gave up searching and tipped the bag up, releasing the two suitcases worth of mangled possessions all over the dirty floor. Her mind was reeling. There had to be something she could do.

Hermione looked over at the Professor again and felt her throat close, he looked smaller like this, lying out on the cold floor. All of her memories of Severus Snape were of him looming over her like an ominous cloud.

She heard Harry try to say something, but she didn't even bother with a glare this time. Hang what the boys thought.

Hermione had believed Professor Snape was on their side, even after Dumbledore had died at the end of his wand. She didn't have the answers, she couldn't explain it, but something didn't add up. Then, during the Horcrux hunt, she had thought he was helping them, but again, she had no proof.

Hermione had told many people in the Order of her suspicions, but none had believed her. Severus Snape was too easy to hate. Molly had looked at her sadly, and told Hermione that she was 'grasping at straws, trying to find goodness in a dark time'. The reactions of the Weasley boys had been less kind. It hadn't stopped her trying to defend him, she argued with any of them that would listen.

She hadn't told anyone about her crush though, that would have been too much to bear. She doubted even Molly could have feigned kindness in the face of that revelation. Hermione told herself that she couldn't help it, Severus Snape was just _so_ bloody intelligent. She supposed his personality could have used a little work, but to a girl that had grown up reading Bronte, her Professor fit all too neatly into the template of an ill-tempered gothic hero who the fates had dealt a cruel hand.

While Hermione grabbed frantically at the scattered objects, a large, cool hand closed around her wrist. She looked down at her Professor, who was staring back at her without a hint of scorn.

"Please, Sir, you have to hold on," she begged.

"If only I could…" he choked out, his ragged voice barely above a whisper.

As his dark eyes rolled back, Hermione fought the urge to scream. It would do him no good now.

It was only later, much much later, after Voldemort had fallen to the floor with a wet thud and the celebrations began that Hermione remembered the time turner. She knew Professor McGonagall still had it, and her feet walked in the direction of her Head of Houses' office before her brain gave them the command.

That was how she found herself standing behind a desk, in a quiet part of the war-ravaged castle, with the familiar gold chain around her neck. Debating something so reckless, so selfish she hardly recognised herself. But now that she'd had the idea, Hermione didn't know if she could fight it.

With shaking fingers, she reached up to twist the cogs and the darkness around her twisted away.


	8. Diamonds - Part Three

**Diamonds - Part Three**

Prompt: Could we see everyone's reaction to the engagement/ring? Like the Malfoys Weasleys etc.  
for TimeRose

* * *

Hermione squared her shoulders as she walked down the familiar, overgrown path to the Burrow. Her new ring, the ring that declared she would one day be Draco's wife, weighted down her finger. Hermione wondered for the hundredth time if she should have tried to break the news by owl, but then she shushed herself. She was many things, but she wasn't a coward. If the wolves on the other side of the door got the slightest notion that she was ashamed of her choice, Hermione would never hear the end of it. She needed to start as she meant to go on. Head held high, resolve on her face and in her heart.

All too soon, Hermione ran out of cobbles. She said a silent prayer to a God she didn't believe in before she opened the door to face the music.

* * *

An hour later, most of the initial chaos had calmed. Mr Weasley had righted the knocked down chairs, and Mrs Weasley had swapped the alcohol around the place for hot drinks. Hermione had wondered whether giving them a cup of scalding water each was a good idea, but she had said nothing.

Ron had been taken to another room by Lavender when he was unable to keep his mouth shut despite the protests of most of his brothers. Hermione's former dormmate had brushed past her a little harder than necessary when they left, but Hermione had hardly registered it. Lavender had her pity, but she doubted the blonde would want to know that. She had spent too long explaining again and again that there was nothing between her and Ron. At this point, Lavender's insecurity was her own to manage as was her boyfriend's temper. Hermione had long ago washed her hands of all of it.

Hermione felt herself sag in the quiet of the room. She could still hear Ron's vicious accusations fly. The rest had been equally surprised - though arguably less volatile - and Hermione had begun to feel irritated. She had been dating Draco for _two years_ and while she hadn't been expecting him to propose theirs had hardly been a causal association. _Would they have risked as much upset if it had been? _

Harry was still looking green around the gills, and Hermione felt his disgust pricking at her skin even more unbearably than Ron's rage.

"I accepted Daphne," she gritted out, and he turned to look at her with awkward indignation.

"I know, but Mione, _it's Malfoy,_" Harry whined.

Hermione's hand bit into the worn tabletop, and she felt her ring again, weighing her down and reminding her of why she was doing all this.

"No, Harry," she said tiredly. "It's _me_. He's _my_ choice."

"Of all people, did it have to be him?"

"Yes," Hermione replied, determined not to explain herself. They didn't deserve it. "I'm not changing my mind. So I suggest you get on board with this."

"Or what?" Harry asked softly, and Hermione just let the words hang between them. She didn't need to say anymore. She had made her choice.

"Personally, I think it's lovely, though Draco certainly doesn't mind spending his money does he," Mrs Weasley said as she stirred another cup of tea and sat at the table, gesturing at Hermione's ring with a nod of her head. "A wedding," she sighed, "I can't wait. You'll look beautiful, my dear."

Hermione imagined Molly's goodwill would sour rather dramatically when she was apprised of precisely what Narcissa thought comprised a 'simple wedding'.

Narcissa Malfoy had taken one look at the ring her son had picked and within two seconds had pronounced it 'acceptable'. Hermione had wanted to quip about how _her _acceptance was still pending. But she held it in. She was getting rather used to holding it in around his family. It being her every thought and feeling. Hermione supposed she should feel resentful, but Draco had made concessions in his way. She still remembered how tough he had found babysitting Teddy with her and yet he had done it because she had asked. There was an honour to him, one that he would never admit to, but she saw it.

"Anyway, I best be going," Hermione said, trying for an unconcerned tone as if they had had a regular visit and not one that had resulted in an explosion of revulsion and accusation.

She got to the door before Ginny caught her and wrapped her in a much-needed hug. "I'm happy for you, Hermione," the redhead whispered. "But be careful of that," she said, pointing to Hermione's engagement ring. "You could go to blow your nose and take your eye out!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Thank you, Ginny, but remember to be nice to me. I'm the only thing that stands between you and what Narcissa Malfoy would call an _understated_ bridesmaid dress."

Ginny scowled, and Hermione laughed.

* * *

Hermione had only made it as far as the tree line around the Weasley property when she sensed that she wasn't alone. "Draco," she said tiredly, and almost immediately he appeared in front of her, casually slipping off his coat and wrapping it around her shoulders.

"You're crying," he observed dispassionately, his tone too controlled to be believed. Hermione didn't ask how long he had been there. She should have known better earlier when he had said he was happy for her to go alone.

Hermione raised her hands to her face and was mildly surprised when her fingers came back wet. She hadn't realised. "What is it you always tell me?" she said in what she hoped was a sunny voice. "Don't let them see how much they affect you. I don't think I started until I came out, though I'm not sure."

"How was it?"

Hermione sighed, "Not good."

Draco pulled her into his arms and Hermione stiffened before she sagged into his grip. He wasn't usually one for public displays of affection. Draco could be so emotional with her that it flayed her raw, but only ever alone. She nearly warned him that they could probably be seen from the house, but she stopped herself. He must have known that already. In some small way, she imagined it was an act of defiance. He already knew all they would have said, and most of it centred on how he didn't love her. He wanted to prove them all wrong.

"They finally put you off me?" he asked dryly.

Hermione smiled against his shirt. "No. Not now, not ever."

Draco's grip turned so hard it was almost painful, but Hermione suppressed her wince.

"Can I take you home?"

Hermione pressed her fingers into his jumper and swallowed. The Draco of two years ago - if she was honest even the Draco of last year - would have drawn his wand by now, he would have threatened to go in there and _make_ them apologise. The Draco of now, the one that wanted to _marry _her, his parents be damned, just wanted her to be happy.

"Yes please," she said firmly and felt him nod against the top of her head.

They apparated away.

* * *

Ginny turned from her position at the window and looked at Harry standing next to her with a concerned frown pulling down his eyebrows.

"Well, Harry, you're going to have to do a fair bit to make it up to your friend."

The chastisement in her tone made Harry wince. "What do you suggest?"

Ginny grinned. Harry had dated her long enough to be very frightened of that look. "I think you should ask Draco."

Harry rubbed his hand over his face. "Should I take Ron as well, do you think?"

"Not unless you want him to die, Harry," Ginny replied sweetly before she scampered off to help her mother with the washing up.


	9. Diamonds - Part Four

**Diamonds - Part Four**

Prompt: I would definitely like to see Harry approach Draco!  
for Jeraly

* * *

Draco looked over his large desk at Harry Potter, leant back in one of his office chairs without an apparent care in the world, and tried to control the urge to flip the furniture over and pummel the idiot into oblivion.

It had been the same ever since the very first day of Hogwarts; one refused handshake had laid the first foundations of what was now a deep-seated hatred. Draco had been willing to put it all aside, for the sake of the witch he had fallen in love with. He would have gritted his teeth as they got through wedding preparations and even tolerated Potter giving her away. Anything to make _her _happy. That burst of charitable feeling had withered and died as soon as he had collected Hermione after her _experience_ at the Burrow.

Hermione had insisted going on her own '_it's happy news_' she had said, '_they'll be pleased for me, for us_'. Draco had been able to feel her shake as she had sagged against him next to a dilapidated fence and poorly maintained trees. It had worked him up to a level of impotent rage he hadn't felt since he'd seen his mother threatened during the war.

Three weeks it had taken Potter to reach out to him, three weeks of unanswered owls and missed floo calls before the-boy-who-lived but hadn't grown up, finally decided to face up to what he had done.

Draco thought he had suffered through the worst of Potter during school. There was nothing quite like the frustrated anguish of your schoolyard enemy becoming the saviour of your world. He'd expected to put the whole mess behind him once he had been exonerated. The most Draco had expected to see of Potter was a distant sighting at some function they were both attending. Then he had run into Hermione one day, and her reserved civility had goaded him into asking her to dinner. Honestly, he had wanted to see if that would be the thing that would make her shrink away from him. But she had raised her chin with defiance he should have known to look for, and accepted. He'd not been able to stop himself falling in love with her.

Draco had wanted to burn the short note when Potter had sent it; the term too little too late had been invented for the brief message the bespectacled nuisance had thought sufficient to gain entry into Draco's diary. But then he had thought about Hermione's pale sadness as the realisation that her best friends couldn't be happy for her had settled in.

Draco had been waiting for her to pack her bags ever since lunch at the Weasley's had gone so awry. Honestly, he'd been half expecting her to wake up one day and leave since they had first moved in together, but this time Weasel and Scarhead had given her a reason. Yet, she hadn't. Hermione had stayed, waving off any suggestion he made about her possible regrets with a weighty point to her now adorned finger. Draco hated to admit it, but the least he could do was to offer to make amends. But there was no way he was budging without an assurance Potter would set it right with Hermione.

Potter twisted uncomfortably in his seat and Draco glared at him. He'd called the meeting, so it was his prerogative to speak first, and all he had done was refuse a drink - that Draco definitely hadn't thought about poisoning - and fidgeted in his seat since arriving.

Potter eventually settled and then glanced around the study till his eyes fell to a spot behind Draco's head and he blanched. Draco didn't need to turn around to know what he was looking at. He knew all too well. It was a framed picture of himself and Hermione, sitting on an empty section of his bookcase, taken on their first holiday together. Draco could picture it without having to glance; he had studied it often. The sun had brought out freckles over the bridge of Hermione's nose, and she'd had to braid her monstrous hair back so she could see. He'd never seen anyone more beautiful. Draco had burnt the tops of his ears on the first day, and he'd forgotten to pack the hair gel he preferred, so his hair fell permanently over his eyes.

They looked so young in that photo it was like the previous years of fear and hardship hadn't happened. He knew she was the reason he looked so carefree; he hoped the same could have been said in reverse. Draco had it framed as soon as they got back and displayed it in whatever room he was currently using most. It moved from the kitchen to the living room, to his bedroom with him during the week, and it made the rounds for a whole year. Until the flesh and blood woman had moved in, and he hadn't needed a constant reminder of her place in his life, not when she was curled up in an armchair or sat at the kitchen island. So he had moved the beloved photo to his study. A place his father had kept all of his more candid pictures of his mother, a practise he hoped to replicate. One of the only from the lessons his father had taught him.

Draco had picked the location for their meeting very deliberately. Potter seemed to think he could sweep up this mess as nothing more than a little disagreement and pretend as if nothing had happened. Not on Draco's watch. As far as he was concerned, Potter needed to face the realities of Hermione's life. She had lived with him for a year, and neither of her supposed 'closest friends' had visited.

Others had, of course, in fact, Draco felt as if there were an almost constant stream of people that came through his previously silent flat, but as they were mainly pleasant and certainly less messy than the women he had given a key to, he found he didn't mind overly.

"If you hurt her…" Potter began finally, and Draco just about resisted the urge to whack his head against the desk. _Maybe this would go quicker if he was concussed? _

"That wasn't why I let you come," he replied dryly. _You're supposed to be apologising you self important twat. _

Potter shrugged. "I think we need to get some things straight. If you are serious about marrying her."

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. "I'm sorry, Potter, I know you were dragged up by unfeeling Muggles, so you don't always understand social cues. Buying a ring, _proposing,_ it tends to denote a serious desire to enter the marital state."

"Drop the sarcasm, ferret," Harry spat through gritted teeth. "I've not got the patience for your BS."

"You don't scare me," Draco replied blandly, Potter's posturing had become annoying to him a long time ago.

"I should," Harry assured.

Draco scoffed, "Once you've had the dark lord…"

Harry cut him off with a hard glint in his eyes. "You mean the one I killed?"

"Did no one ever teach you that it's crass to go on and on about your achievements?" Draco replied. "Anyway, from what I understand, you had help."

The mention of Hermione cut through the tension in the room, giving both of them a much-needed chance to breathe.

"How is she?" Harry asked, and Draco was pleased to see that he had eventually come to ask what should have been his first question.

"Upset but not surprised, and who can blame her."

Potter fidgeted again, but this time he was either failing to mask as well or no longer cared what Draco thought of him. "She's never gone this long without speaking to me."

"Though you have gone this long without speaking to her?"

Potter looked at his lap, and Draco had another of his lingering boyhood questions answered.

"Mal... _Draco_," Potter said, looking as if the word physically pained him. "What can I do?"

"You're asking me?" Draco said, sitting back in his seat with some surprise.

"Try not to enjoy this too much," Harry said bitterly, and Draco bit his tongue. That the idiot in front of him actually thought he could say anything that would make him enjoy his company was farcical. He thought of Hermione as she had left that day, her hair pulled up in a bun on the top of her head, tendril's escaping in front of her ears. She'd looked so hopeful when he'd said he was going to meet with Harry.

Draco sucked in a huge breath and thought of the simple, elegant, malleable pureblood girl he was supposed to have married. She wouldn't have come with undesirable friends. But then, she wouldn't have been Hermione either.

"Potter, like it or not, Hermione is going to be my wife."

"She could always change her mind," Harry replied smugly.

Logically Draco knew Harry had no idea he had prodded at his biggest insecurity, but it didn't temper his response. He had been pierced, and if he had picked up anything about duelling, it was that you always hit back with equal or greater force.

"What, like young Ginerva, did?"

There had been rumours of course, about the break up no one had seen coming. He imagined Potter wasn't particularly cut up about it, but Draco knew Ginny had been the one to sound the death knell and that Potter was prideful enough for that to bother him.

There was silence for a few moments before both of them reigned in their temper.

"I apologise," Draco said eventually, "that was probably too far." _He half meant it._

"You think?"

Draco eyed Potter coldly. "You hurt my future wife, Potter. I would be well within my rights to see you on a duelling platform."

Harry smirked. "Where I would win."

"One again, you miss the point."

There was silence again, and Draco finally gave in to his internal desire to have a drink, there was only so much stupidy he could be expected to face in one day.

"She's not answering my letters," Potter said as his back was turned.

"I noticed."

Draco sat down slowly in his chair and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Don't apologise until you mean it. She's very good at knowing if your lying and you better bloody mean it, Potter. You hurt her. If I were you, I would suggest finding a way of getting on board with his because I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm never going to like you."

"At last, something we can agree on."

"But I can probably… I don't know… tolerate you, for her."

Potter looked at him with all of his assumed morality shining in his eyes and Draco had never wanted to hurt someone so badly. "So selfless," he managed without spitting. "If that's all, I'd like you to get out."

"With pleasure."

Potter left, and Draco poured himself another drink, he just hoped the bastard managed an apology sufficient enough to cheer Hermione up and soon.

He turned around in his chair and toasted the happy image the pair of them presented. "Thank Merlin you're worth all this Granger."

* * *

_A/N: I currently have one more outstanding prompt for this one. Hopefully will have it up soon. _


	10. Diamonds - Part Five

**Diamonds - Part Five**

Prompt: Would you consider writing a scene with Narcissa? I fell in love with her in Ready for the Storm.  
for mystripedskirt

_A/N: Narcissa isn't as likeable in this, it's just what came out :/ I have one more prompt for this AU, should have this up soon._

* * *

Hermione forced herself to look down at the white dress she had been asked to try and blew out a long breath through her clenched teeth. Stealing her resolve, she straightened her neck and regarded herself in the full-length mirror. She tried to smile. If she'd heard one thing more than any other during wedding preparations, it was that brides were supposed to look _radiant _when they got married and that their expressions were as joyful as they were natural. Hermione tried to look joyful; the concentration required made her look worried.

She fiddled with a rough piece of applique lace and tried to decide whether this dress, the tenth she had so far tried, was actually hideous or whether it just appeared that way because it was so unlike her it gave her the appearance of a child raiding her mothers dressing up box. All she was missing was the perfect circles of blush on her cheeks, and a long stretched out pearl necklace thrown about her shoulders.

Hermione tried to hold the bodice closer to her chest to see what it might have looked like if it remotely fit, but it was no use. She was sure she would be crocodile clipped into place as soon as she left the confines of the dressing room, but to her mind, this dress was beyond a dramatic alteration.

Simple, that was what she had asked for, simple. _Was that so hard? _

Hermione had seen a dress in one of the magazines Ginny had brought for her, it was a bit like a slip but made out of the most beautiful flowing silk in bright white. It was nothing like the frumpy mess she currently had on. She wanted a dress she could pull over her head without needing two or three people to 'strap her in'. A gown that she could move in and trail over grass as the day wore on. One that would be suited to Fleur braiding her hair, and Luna weaving flowers through. One that looked like her.

"Hermione."

Her soon to be mother in law's voice called from behind the thick velvet curtain of the dressing room, and Hermione knew better than to dally. She sucked in a breath, almost as violently large as the one she had exhaled previously, and walked down an over stylised corridor into a small, plush sitting room.

Hermione didn't make eye contact as she came in, bundled up ample skirts in hand. The immaculate, French-sounding witch that owned the establishment they had spent the better part of a morning in, gestured for her to stand on a stool and Hermione did so, trying her best not to trip up on the excessive skirts.

She looked at her toes poking through the peep-toe shoes she had been given - as if a couple of inches would solve all of her problems - and tried not to think of the ridiculousness of upholstering a stool meant for people to stand on in crushed velvet.

As the lady worked, Hermione's shoulders dropped. She imagined she looked like a petulant toddler, sulking because she had been denied something she wanted, but she had never been very good at hiding her emotions and today was proving to be rather trying.

Narcissa had opinions, many, many opinions. That at least Hermione could understand, even admire about her soon to be family, it was a trait she shared with the lady, but as the time wore on, Hermione was beginning to feel her skin pricking, and not just from the excess of pins that had been jutted at her from every direction.

Narcissa sighed, and Hermione grimaced. "Well, it is beautiful," she drawled dispassionately, "it would have been perfect if you weren't so short."

That was the problem with Narcissa's opinions that morning; they were never about the dresses. The enormous confections of silk, satin and taffeta remained utterly blameless while Hermione was judged to be lacking in all areas. Narcissa was picking them not to suit Hermione, but clothing the image of the girl she still held in her mind, the one that Draco _should_ have been marrying.

So Hermione was relegated to being too short, or too tan; her hair was too exotic, and her hips were 'excessive'.

Narcissa tilted her head to the side and gave Hermione an appraising look. "Maybe something a little less fussy around the waist? It might be more flattering?"

Hermione said nothing, the question wasn't aimed at her, but the lady beavering away beside her.

Hermione cursed herself for ever agreeing to come along, but her parents weren't due to fly out from Australia until the following week and Narcissa had only been able to get an appointment for today. Hermione had known she was being manipulated from the start, but she had agreed because she had been pleased Narcissa was showing an interest. She had assumed her soon to be mother-in-law had also wanted a say so in the dress as she had never been that keen on Hermione's (lack of) style, but now it was clear she had another motive. To get Hermione on her own and to communicate, in the way only Narcissa could, that she still wasn't forgiven for having her only son fall in love with her.

Hermione remained motionless as the owner walked around the shop pulling dresses under Narcissa's direction before coming back and holding them up under Hermione's chin. Hermione spent her time wondering what she would have for lunch and if it was rude to try and flee after this was over without inviting Narcissa to join her. She hoped not; there was only so much she could take in one day.

Hermione's relationship with Narcissa could best be described fluctuating; she was sure the older witch planned it that way, so she never got too complacent. In the beginning, Narcissa was outwardly appalled by her existence in Draco's life and in many ways that initial reaction never truly went away, rather it got worse the longer they stayed together, and the more serious they become. There were glimmers of hope, moments when it felt like Hermione might have received something like approval, but they were few and far between and had been practically non-existent since Draco had brought her back to the manor and showed his mother the ring that he had brought.

Narcissa shook her head affectively nixing yet another frock without further explanation before pointing to something in the window. "Maybe we should try the soft pink silk charmeuse. The whites don't seem to be working."

"Yes, madam," the lady readily agreed before marching off back to the stock room to try and meet her new directions.

Hermione traipsed back to the little cubicle with little enthusiasm and waited until the owner bustled in, collecting one set of dresses and leaving behind another unbelievably large pile.

Hermione unzipped the back of the dress and let it pool around her feet before searching through the rack to find the one Narcissa wanted her to try next. It was hard to identify. To Hermione, most of them looked the same, and Narcissa often mentioned details like hems and fabrics as if Hermione would know immediately what that meant. She was debating shouting through the curtain for some assistance in separating the identical when suddenly the velvet barrier was wrenched back.

Hermione jumped to cover herself instinctively. She had been _very specific _about not wanting to have one of the girls from the shop come in and help her get dressed. While Narcissa had rolled her eyes, Hermione had been determined. She had known it was going to be a trying morning, and the little cubicle was likely to be her only sanctuary, even if she had to share it with twenty-five gowns that in another life could have lived a happy existence as medieval princess costumes.

Only, it wasn't a disapproving Narcissa, or an enthusiastic shop-girl standing in the now open expanse of corridor… it was Draco.

His eyes remained trained on her face as he walked into her little space and pulled the curtain back across. He was unhurried and unapologetic as if his presence needed no explanation. Hermione had never been bothered by his lack of concern more than she was right then, and she stepped back, reaching for the robe she had been left and glaring at Draco as she fumbled with the belt.

"What are you doing here?" she whisper yelled and Draco cast an eye over the overburdened rail at the side of the room.

"I wanted to check you were okay."

"In the changing room?" Hermione returned incredulously.

Draco was unembarrassed but his brow furrowed. "You've been gone for hours, and I know what she can be like. You wouldn't still be doing this if it was your choice."

"Maybe I wanted to try on lots of dresses," Hermione replied with a defensive shrug. "I'm allowed to be girly if I want!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "This was not an attack on your femininity, as well you know. Stop trying to pick a fight to distract me."

"Says the man who burst into a changing room uninvited." Draco folded his arms across his chest, and Hermione sagged. "It's been…. Well, you know how it's been."

Draco nodded and stepped closer, holding his hands away from his sides with his palms towards her. It was a half gesture for a hug, one that had come from an argument they'd had over meeting each other halfway that still made Hermione smile, even on the occasions when she was furious with him.

She walked forward and laid her head on his chest and let him play with the ends of her hair while she took a breath. It was ridiculous, him being there and holding her as she was standing in her underwear and borrowed heels as he was fully dressed, and yet it was perfect.

"You know, you could just confront her?" Draco offered, and Hermione scoffed.

"I could also try to evade a shark bite by offering it a glass of wine, but I think I'd still get eaten."

Hermione felt his half-laugh against her body though he made no noise. "You were never shy about telling me _exactly _what you thought, and here I am today. She'll respect you for it."

"Maybe," Hermione agreed, "but not today… I'm too tired."

"Whenever you want."

Hermione pushed her arms under Draco's jacket and gave herself a moment to breathe him in, borrowing his strength to get through the day. It was never going to be easy for them; they were never going to be met with universally smiling faces, and yet they were both still there and both still in it. It gave her confidence in a way; if they could stand against all the world and choose each other, she couldn't see that marriage could throw anything at them that they wouldn't be able to weather.

"Hermione," Draco murmured, and she replied with an inquiring noise. "Please tell me you aren't planning on wearing any of those dresses."

Hermione laughed, unfortunately, a little too loud.

"Draco Malfoy," Narcissa called, and Hermione groaned. "I believe you owe me an explanation as to why you are here."

Draco rolled his eyes, pulled up Hermione's jaw and pressed a hard yet fleeting kiss to her lips. "I promise I'll go, if my mother thinks I've seen your dress she won't be able to hold onto her anger long enough to twist it into disdain, she will simply throttle me."

"Okay," Hermione agreed, missing him already but not letting herself admit it.

"Dinner later?" he prompted, and she nodded.

"Yes, but remember Harry's coming over, with Daphne? We promised last week."

Draco sighed. "Lucky me."

"Draco," Narcissa shouted again. Her voice had risen an octave, and it made Draco's hand shoot to the curtain.

"Coming mother," he replied and gave Hermione a wink before walking out into the corridor.

Hermione listened to his feet as he retreated and took a long sweeping glance at the rack that was dominating her small space.

On the other side of the room was one dress, a single one she had managed to pick up before her soon to be mother in law took hold of proceedings. Hermione ran her fingers down the silk length of the bright white dress and then bent to reach into her handbag and pull out a hair tie. She twisted and tugged until all of her curls were piled up onto her head and then she slipped the dress off the hanger.

It was time to take back control.


	11. Diamonds - Part Six

**Diamonds Part 6**

Prompt (1)Then he had run into Hermione one day, and her reserved civility had goaded him into asking her to dinner. Honestly, he had wanted to see if that would be the thing that would make her shrink away from him. But she had raised her chin with defiance he should have known to look for, and accepted. - I NEED you to include a Diamond prequel chapter that fleshes these three sentences out!  
for WizMonCruWil

Prompt (2) Can you please do a Diamonds prequel, in which Draco asks Hermione out to dinner and she definitely says Yes, as you so wonderfully put it? I would love to see that fleshed out!  
for Anon

_A/N: and yes, that is a Jane Eyre reference you spy in here… though Draco is no Rochester and Hermione is CERTAINLY no Jane, I just liked the idea of him thinking along the lines of her unbreakable sense of self, and that story crept in for a moment. _

* * *

Draco adjusted his scarf as he walked down one of the quieter sub streets off Diagon Alley. He pulled the thick green material up out of the top of his jacket until it was covering his face from the nose down. A little voice inside his head scolded that as he hadn't bothered to do anything to disguise his distinctive hair, the effort was for nothing. Draco ignored it. He had considered magically changing his hair colour many times; he'd even considered using Muggle dye once or twice, but he never had. When he pulled up his scarf, he could pretend he wasn't hiding. It would have been harder to sell the pretence if he actually started altering his appearance before leaving the house.

It was October, and the weather had finally realised it was no longer Summer and was attempting to make up for its tardiness with two weeks of icy rain and grey skies.

Draco didn't want to be out at all, but he had promised Daphne he would meet her at a cafe, she apparently had news she couldn't share by owl. Draco had responded with predictable disinterest but had nevertheless pledged to go. Daphne was no fool. She would have seen through him in an instant. While he might have willingly cut himself off from the rest of the world, Draco took a perverse kind of pleasure in hearing the latest gossip concerning his former classmates. Even when, more often than not, it became clear that whatever their myriad failings, they were all somehow prospering - succeeding, and leaving him further and further behind.

Draco slid his hands into his pockets and wished he'd brought his gloves. His fingers instinctively rooted around until they gripped around the wand he had stashed there and instantly, Draco felt safer. It was silly to have come this way. He could have apparated straight there, avoiding such a long walk and all of the potential dangers that came with it.

Draco didn't care for being out on his own, not since the war. If he had one of his friends with him, he found it rather easy to slip his familiar sneer in place and act as if nothing bothered him, but when he was alone, it wouldn't stay long enough to be convincing. He felt too vulnerable, too exposed. His shoulders would hunch, and his frame would bend, crouched ready for an attack. It did not make for a comfortable stroll in the autumn winds.

Draco checked his watch as he turned the final corner, about to congratulate himself on a journey without incident, when it all came crashing down. Dead in front of him, mere inches from his longed-for sanctuary, a shop door opened, and veritable golden girl Hermione Granger stepped out of the rickety-looking greengrocers and onto the small swathe of pavement in front of him. _Of course, she would shop in that sort of place_, Draco thought snidely. One where the awning was fading and the vegetables were arranged with no discernible system.

Draco saw the very moment the smile she'd had melted away, she tried to reconstruct it afterwards, but it was a poor imitation of the one she had been throwing over her shoulder, at the man who had gallantly held the door for her. Draco wished the man hadn't bothered, it might have slowed her down for a couple of seconds, allowing him to pass and both of them to be oblivious to what would have been a near-miss.

Granger cleared her throat a few times and managed a quiet, "Malfoy," before rearranging her bags with the awkward kind of shuffling Draco had always despaired of when they were at school. He realised that he'd never seen her with anything less than a gigantic shoulder bag since she was eleven years old. It was a wonder that she hadn't become lopsided. He asked himself if she even owned a clutch? If she ever went anywhere that would make such a thing a necessary purchase.

"How are you?" She asked when he didn't make an effort to respond. "It's been… a long time."

Draco wanted to scoff, but the derogatory exhale of breath wouldn't form. It had indeed been _some time_ since he had seen the sainted Hermione Granger, at least in the flesh, but he wasn't sure when she imagined they had last caught up over tea and crumpets. He hated her for the insinuation that somehow they had once been inside each other's circles and not pacing around outside of them ready to pounce. Social niceties might have demanded it of her, but that made him even crosser.

He'd seen her on the battlefield, blood-smeared and full of fear and anger and then again later, crumpled and small. He thought he might have seen her at his trial, but Draco had half-convinced himself he had imagined it, after all, it was only ever a swish of a sea-green skirt and a curl or two that he'd seen at the corner of his eye.

"Don't pretend you care, Granger," he spat with a dismissive wave of his hand and yet he didn't walk away. They both just continued to stand there, like the proverbial lemons, daring each other to back away first.

Draco didn't know why he was playing this game with her, Granger's stubbornness was legendary as was her bravery, she was in every way the epitome of the school house he had raised to loathe since he was an infant.

She might have been a lioness, all-powerful and cunning with a brute strength that only came from years of honing your skills but Draco wasn't intimidated. If she was a big cat, he was a hyena, and though he may never have got glory in his role, he always knew, instinctively, when his opponent had met their end.

Granger's eyes flared, and then she huffed, _she actually huffed_. He'd forgotten how easy to rile she was. That had been the beauty of her and her little band of misfits when they had all been a school together, how responsive they were. Draco had spent most of his mid-teens powerless to alter the course of his life as if his efforts were little more than screams in the wind. But with them, _the golden trio_, he would only ever have to give the tiniest little nudge, and they went toppling over.

"I was only trying to be pleasant, Malfoy," she retorted, drawing herself up and standing on her tiptoes. "Lord knows you must recognise manners, even if you don't pretend to use them."

Draco sneered. "As if you have any idea of what constitutes manners, given how you were dragged up."

"Given my filthy Muggle relations, you mean?" she replied with her pert little nose stuck up in the air. "I think it's time you got some new material, Malfoy. This act is as tired as the bags under your eyes."

Draco licked the outside of his teeth to stop himself from a rash, careless response. "Why aren't we being personal, little miss goody two shoes? No need to comment on your appearance, your hair is as ghastly as ever."

She stepped forward and prodded him in the chest as her eyes retracted to slits, and Draco stopped himself from reaching to seize her wrist. That was the thing about Granger; you could be fooled into thinking she was tougher than she was. Considering her personality, she was actually quite dainty, and oh so breakable. He could break her body, even without meaning too, even as cowardly as he was, but he could never break her irrepressible spirit — _the damn woman. _

But Merlin, it felt good to spar again. Draco's friends were too frightened to push him too far. He'd not reacted well at the end of the war, years of unresolved tensions all coming to ahead in a moment.

She'd gotten on to some laboured point about inbreeding when suddenly another person appeared on the little street heading past them and presumably on to their decidedly less complicated life and immediately, Granger shrunk back. Draco flexed his hand as he realised the gulf that had appeared between them and the fire in his chest turned to ice.

"What's the matter, Granger, worried someone might see you with me?" Draco seethed, as angry as he'd ever been. _The bloody hypocrite_. Always going on about _the rights of the downtrodden_ and she didn't even have the sense of humanity to stand next to him on a public street.

"No-"

He took a step closer, bearing his teeth. "We wouldn't want you to ruin your perfect golden image by being seen associating with the riff-raff."

"That's not what I-"

"Please do tell?" Draco spat, "what possible justification can you invent for yourself so you can keep your precious moral high ground?"

She practically hissed at him, and for a moment, he would have sworn her hair swelled. That was the bit he would remember in the most detail, hours later, when contemplating exactly what he had gotten himself into. Her cheeks were pink, and her shopping bags were on the floor wholly forgotten. The look in her eyes was so furious Draco instinctively checked her hands for her wand.

"I was moving out of the way, okay, your highness? The path is narrow. I was moving so they'd have room and not be blocked by the most awkward run-in I have ever encountered. You wouldn't recognise the notion because your too full of yourself to think of someone else's needs at all, let alone ahead of your own. You self important, self-pitying prick!"

For a few moments, there was silence. Draco had the impression Hermione had wanted to tell him off for a _very _long time. The hair barb probably hadn't helped. She should probably know by now that he hadn't meant it, he never had really. But he was a hyena; he knew the weaknesses of everyone even if none of them were really his prey.

Their meeting seemed at an end, and yet neither of them moved. For himself, Draco didn't know what to say, Hermione still seemed to be calming herself down if breathing was anything to go by.

"So, you're not embarrassed?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"No."

She answered quickly, not too quickly, but fast and seemingly truthfully. Despite their relative heights, Draco felt small. The longer the silence continued after his question, the more exposed he felt. He felt the age-old need to regain the upper hand, to reclaim some of his dignity before he left the conversation, before he left her thinking of him as some whipped wounded animal.

"Well, if you're not embarrassed, why don't we continue this another time, catch up properly?" he said with a predatory smile.

It was a significant step-change to the rest of their encounter, and so he wasn't surprised that Hermione looked so startled. It made him feel like he was back on solid ground, in charge, at least it did until she answered.

"If you like?" she said, seemingly without a care in the world and began to gather up her bags.

Draco was incensed by her easy acceptance, but he was far from done. He had never known when to quit. He took a step towards her until he was blocking her frame from the wind and making her hair look a shade darker in his shadow. "I would like," he said, "how about a date, Granger? What would you say to that?"

Draco waited, he waited for her to shudder in disgust or spit out her refusal, but neither came. She looked around for a moment as if expecting divine intervention before she shook out her curls and raised her head, meeting his gaze squarely.

"A date sounds _wonderful,_ Malfoy," she replied, smiling more sweetly than he had thought her capable of. "Owl me with the details, I shall look forward to it."

She pulled the lapel of her coat over her throat and marched away before he could say anything in reply.

Draco was left staring after her. He had the distinct impression she knew precisely what he was about and was not about to be cowed or intimidated. He found himself grudgingly respecting her. He hated her for that too.

Finally, he got to the cafe, and he saw Daphne inside, picking at a seeded bun and looking nervous. At least he had something to say that would distract her from whatever had put her in an anxious mode. He was going on a date with Hermione Granger. In terms of gossip, it was likely to be the most unbelievable thing she heard all year.


	12. Phonebooth

**Phonebooth**

Prompt: Harry x Daphne - Phonebooth  
for Anon

* * *

Six months. That's how long the craziest relationship of Harry Potter's short, overburdened life had been going.

Twenty-six weeks. A weird paradox, where time seemed to flash by and stretch out into forever, all at once.

Half a year. A considerable amount of time for anyone only just out of counting their life in terms.

One hundred and eighty-two days. Yet, it was a secret. Still.

Harry had never kept anything from Ron and Hermione for that long before. Even when he had given himself the trouble to try, it hadn't been possible. Harry had tried to convince himself that his actions stemmed from the frivolity of this attachment, but his words seemed hollow, even in his head. A far more believable reasoning was that telling Ron and Hermione would burst the bubble that he had constructed around himself - and, he supposed, _around them_. His friends would have questions, and Harry couldn't blame them for that, he would have been the same if the situation were reversed.

It went against every instinct that he had, but Harry fibbed, he misinformed, he fabricated, and he falsely alluded to things that did not exist - overtime at work that couldn't be avoided, calls to people he hadn't spoken to in months and obligations that he dreamed up out of nowhere. All so that he could get home and respond to the latest message, and ponder what to do next.

Sometimes the fact that Hermione and Ron believed him so readily made his guilt so unbearable that Harry was sure the words would tumble from his mouth without his permission. But they never did. He buried them deep and decided to worry about it another day. He was good at that. He'd had a lot of practice at putting uncomfortable to the back of his mind to worry about later.

You've lied, Harry thought to himself, as he recalled one of Hermione's disappointed shrugs at another dinner missed. But he couldn't use the word. Whenever Harry even thought about it, he would unconsciously rub the back of his hand. The bumps that he found there still felt fresh, regardless of the years that had gone by. _Lies_ was still a dirty word to him. People spoke of it as if it was nothing, but not Harry. Somedays, he thought he was more likely to drop an Unforgivable than to call into question someone's honesty. The allegation meant something to him. It had to; it was a lesson he had been _forced_ to learn. _Liar _was a brand he never wanted to have.

Yet, he was, _telling lies that is_.

It had started during a storm with a misdirected owl. Something that seemed too made up to be believed, even in what had become a life that was so messy it was already fabled to some. Harry didn't hold much stock in prophecy, but he felt a tug of fate with the events of that night. His message that had been intended for Hermione - a short note asking if she had one of his jumpers she was prone to favouring - had come back with a reply that was certainly not from his longtime friend. Curiosity - and maybe, if he was honest, a dash of loneliness - had gotten the better of him, and hadn't been able to help himself, he'd replied.

Six months.

Since that fateful beginning, they had been corresponding back and forth without ever disclosing who they were. The notes had been short, tentative and cautious, and then they had morphed, lengthened and became more frequent as they grew into each other comfort zones. They had exchanged ages and so much else, but never who they were, nothing that would give too much away. It was secret even to them.

Harry had been uncomfortably reminded of his time in the second year, and of the relief and safety he had found in pouring himself into parchment. Except, this time his correspondent displayed none of the red flags he could now see clear as day when he thought back to his 'talks' with Riddle's echo.

Six months.

In that time, it had become the most essential relationship Harry had ever had. He didn't know whether to find that elating or depressing. He had joked about how they had become his port from the storm, and from those messages of comfort blossomed a sprig of affection and the promise of so much more.

And now they were meeting.

It had seemed like a ridiculous idea at first, but as soon as Harry had thought of it, the concept wouldn't go away. Like so many other things in his life, it followed him around like his own personal rain cloud until he found himself suggesting it at the end of one of his many letters, then sending it off - the ink barely dry - before he could give it another thought and tear it up.

He had waited for two hours for a response, though it had felt like longer at the time.

The last week had been filled with talk of their meeting, and it was a chance for them to air some of the tensions they felt before they were face to face. Then, finally, they had set a date and a time, and there was no more stalling to be done.

Harry had suggested meeting by a Muggle phonebooth, both because it was likely to be unused and because it would give them a chance to adjust to who they were before they apparated to the restaurant he had booked.

He was struck by the notion that he had never _actually_ booked a restaurant before. _Surely that was unthinkably odd, considering he was now nearly nineteen_, but he had never had the chance. Going out with his friends meant Hermione always did it, going out on dates with Ginny, briefly, had meant never knowing what she would have prefered and so he had fallen into letting her do it by default.

So, Harry made a plan, forcing himself not to overthink every element. What he hadn't anticipated was the weather; it was pouring down. Something else that appealed to the glimmer of something in him that believed in fates. As a person who had seemingly beaten a prophecy and reversed his own, he thought he could think on those arts however he liked - _as long as Hermione never found out about it._

As he was ten minutes early Harry decided to step into the dilapidated box and wait it out. It would give him a chance to siphon off some of the rain that had soaked through his jacket and wipe his glasses. He wasn't waiting long. The rickety door pulled open only two or three minutes later, and a wet, beautiful and unfairly familiar face walked in.

"Potter?"

The use of his surname in that clipped, decidedly posh tone that he barely even remembered - he couldn't recall if she had ever spoken to him directly before - snapped him into life. He stood away from the wall of the confined space and took a step closer as if nearness would change the reality of the person standing in front of him.

"Greengrass?"

"Shit!"


	13. The Last Time

**The Last Time**

Prompt: Yaxley x Hermione: The Last Time  
for Anon

* * *

Reuben Yaxley heard the clack of Hermione's preferred work heels touch the ground - a sound he would have recognised anywhere - and he placed his forehead against the stone wall above her head. Enough hair had escaped her braid for him to feel the odd curl brush against his unshaven jaw and he gritted his teeth to bite back a sigh.

Reuben often revelled in the height difference between them, but no more so than now, when he could use it to hide his expression. He worked his teeth back and forth until his face loosened, and then pushed all of his more raw feelings to the back of his mind. He wouldn't have much time to savour the _afterglow_. Then again, he never did.

Reuben listened attentively as Hermione's breathing slowed and regained its usual steadiness. He wished he could turn back time. _But to when? To half an hour before, or to before any of this had even started?_ Only moments ago they had been frantically tearing at each other's clothing and grabbing at whatever exposed skin they could. Hunting for heat and desperate to create it. Now though, it would all be different.

"Yax," Hermione began softly and Reuben only just stopped himself from swearing in response to her pitying tone. The cruelty of her only using a shortened version of his name when she was ready to pull away from him was acute. The sweat that had begun to mist on his temples had barely cooled, and Hermione was already starting the by now familiar brush off speech. For a woman that had such a compassionate image, you would have thought she could have waited until he had at least gotten dressed. Nobody wanted to be sent packing while their flies were down.

"You know that we can't do this anymore, this has to be-"

"Stop, Hermione, _just stop_," he harshly interjected before she could finish. He didn't want to hear her repeat it. He wasn't going to be a passive player in whatever melodrama she had rolled out in her mind, not anymore.

By some miracle, she listened to him, and Reuben pulled away from her, both to get some much needed physical distance and to better read her face. She was less cautious than him. Hermione pushed a damp clump of hair off her forehead and fiddled with a button on her pearly white blouse. She was quiet but determined, awkward and sure. It was the exact paradox oozing with passion and challenge that had attracted him in the first place, and he wanted to rush back over and close the gap, hurl her against the wall and hold her there until she would listen. But he didn't, he kept his feet firmly planted on the floor.

They had been doing this for months. It had started not long after Hermione had joined Hogwarts school as the History teacher. Reuben, having been there for years, had been assigned to be her 'guide', and it hadn't started well. They had differing opinions on everything, and they debated them endlessly. Hermione didn't believe in detentions, yet had no problem with standardised testing. She wanted the school to be kept open during holidays but baulked at the idea of cutting back on tuition costs lest it lowered the budgets for materials. Reuben thought she was wrong on just about every major issue, but he respected her too. Even when she would make personal comments to try and win her arguments, _especially then even_, as the sudden shame she invertible felt made her cheeks flush and her breath pant. Her voice when giving an apology always sounded especially husky.

As the old adage would have you believe, all that passion had to go somewhere.

And so began a pattern. They would start off in his classroom, usually with Hermione storming in to tell him off. An argument would start, and it would end with them pressed against the nearest surface. The aftermath was always the same as well. Hermione would right her clothes and tell him it could never happen again, and how no one would ever take her seriously if it got out, how it was the last time.

In the beginning, Reuben had been happy with her apparent desire to keep things casual, but not anymore, and the worst thing was she knew it.

Reuben had never been one for secrets, especially in matters of attraction. It was a point of honour for him always to be upfront with women about how he felt. His issue now was that Hermione didn't _want _to hear him. When his feelings had changed, he had tried to tell her. She had obstructed, argued and all but run away from him. But he had seen it there anyway, the fear. He knew she cared for him too, it was there every time their eyes met when he was inside her, in every cup of tea she made that was just the way he liked it, the way she unconsciously picked to chaperone events that he was already obligated to, so she would have someone to talk to. She just wouldn't admit it.

It was time to break the pattern.

Reuben pulled further away from her and shrugged himself back into his jacket. It was essential, his shirt was a mess, and he still had to complete his rounds before he could turn in and be left with his regrets. At least it was Thursday tomorrow; therefore, there was no chance of him going back to his rooms and convincing himself it was a good idea to get blind drunk.

He swallowed back the harsh words he wanted to use - the ones that had proved ineffective in combating her resolve. He made a point of meeting her eyes. He could almost hear her soft noises from moments before reverberating around the room. "Fine," he agreed calmly, watching as her pupils widened and she bit the side of her lip. Fucking beautiful. "The last time."

"What?" Hermione said, the single word falling from her mouth as her head tilted. Reuben felt a bitter thrill in begin able to shock her, for so long he had felt on the back foot.

He reached forward to curl one of her loose strands of hair around his finger, committing its lustre and bounce to memory. "I agree with you, and you have my word. Just friends from now on."

He was amazed that the short, planned sentence didn't' choke him.

She stared at him as if he had changed colour. Her mouth gaped, and she grasped for what to say, but no words were coming.

"Have a good day, Hermione," he managed to offer as he forced himself to leave his classroom and not look back.


	14. Hope

**Hope**

Prompt: [Theo x Lavender] Hope  
for gwen-devilliers

* * *

Lavender looked up at the ageing white tiles that made up the ceiling of her arid, white room. They differed in size from the cracked white tiles of the floor, and those on the walls, but only slightly. It was a difference she would never have noticed if she hadn't been trapped in the hospital for months.

She had never been to St Mungo's before, not ever, and she wasn't prepared for how bright it would be. The constant light was almost as grating as the endlessly positive attitudes of the healthcare professionals that came in every day to ask her how she was, to apply ointments and to change her dressings.

How bright and how bleak.

The last real colour that Lavender had seen - at least that she could remember clearly - had been the grim, terrifying flash of red as Fenrir Greyback had sunk his rancid teeth into her neck. Lavender wondered if it had even been real, or whether the deep crimson had been conjured up by her mind as an unconscious response to her complete terror.

She had thought she had died at first. Somehow surviving didn't quite seem like the blessing it was supposed to have been. There had been a sense of relief, of course, but then only a long settling blankness.

From the moment Lavender had woken up, everything had been clinical, sterile and quiet.

Lavender had been told about the outcome of the final battle by nurses. They had been kind but impersonal in their delivery of the news, and it had made Lavender feel all the more alone. _How were they to know that some of the casualties meant something to her?_ They only knew her as a broken schoolgirl in a scrubbed white bed. They weren't to know that she had cared for people that were now dead. It wasn't their fault. But she hated them for it all the same.

Her friends came to visit, intermittently, but Lavender found she saved her outpouring of grief for when she was on her own. Tears for those that had fallen and tears for herself. While being in the hospital, she had been afforded precious few dignities; for the first few weeks she hadn't been able to so much as go to the bathroom unaided. Keeping her emotions to herself felt like a victory of sorts. They would see her vulnerable, she couldn't help that, but she would not be weak.

As the weeks went on the time between her friends visits stretched and stretched. There was much to do on the outside Lavender came to understand, to rebuild after the ravages of war.

Lavender tried to be sympathetic, really she did, but it was… hard.

Endless people told her about what had to be done to repair the castle and grounds from the battle and Death Eater possession. She wanted to ask when the team was arriving to help put her face back together, but she never did. Despite herself, she worried it would stop them from coming, the few that bothered at all. So she listened and tried to empathise. She didn't, but she tried.

Lavender moved her legs under the stiff white blanket and thought about summoning the energy to go and see the small flower garden they had on the roof of the hospital. It was a short journey, and yet it could feel endless. The payoff was minimal for the effort, but it was something to do. Another slot of time spent, another infinite pocket closer to being free of the place.

But her legs didn't move towards the door. Though Lavender hated the little room she was housed in, being out of it brought on panic the likes of which she had never felt before. There were too many people, too much noise, too many eyes looking at her.

Once upon a time, she had _liked_ being the centre of attention, craved it even. Feeling gazes on her cheeks had always given her a sense of warmth and admiration, but not anymore. She didn't like _why_ they stared now.

Lavender had been a popular girl all her life. _Beautiful _she had been called when she was little and beautiful she remained. Lavender had made friends at school, and people had always wanted to hear what she had to say. Girls wanted to be her, and she'd had her pick of the boys. Well, all but one, but she was over that, mostly.

She came to find she wasn't suited to being on her own. She wasn't used to it. She missed the attention. _The good kind_. She missed being in the centre of a room and feeling all eyes on her and not crippling shame.

Parvati - her one true remaining friend, faithful to the last - had brought her makeup once, and a magazine with new charms for her hair. She had thought it would cheer her up. Lavender had struggled to gather together any enthusiasm, but she had let Parvati work in the braids anyway. She had taken them out as soon as the other girl had left, leaving her hair down covered the side of her face, and her mutilated neck.

Lavender sat in her bed with the covers pulled over her perfectly neatly and looked at the clock. There were only a few minutes left until the end of the regular visiting hours, so it didn't seem like…

A knock on the door pulled her thoughts away from the oppressive silence, and she made a small effort to straighten her back. Old habits died hard. It was funny how in one moment you could crave anything to end your loneliness but then the very next, as soon as a person approached, you could wish to be alone again.

Lavender tried to arrange her features into a smile and looked expectantly, if not excitedly, at the door.

* * *

Theodore Nott marched along the seemingly endless halls of St Mungo's and tried not to frown as his shoes squeaked against the over-cleaned floor. He would rather have been anywhere else in the world, apart from prison that is, which was why he had sucked up his considerable pride and turned up for his appointment. If Draco had managed to complete his own version of this hell he was sure he could do the same.

Theo stuck out in his robes made up exclusively of dark colours, and for once, he was glad. While he might have spent most of his time since the war wishing he could thoroughly blend in, to avoid detection, here, in this miserable place, he wanted nothing less than to belong.

They walked past two witches pushing a trolley filled with foul-smelling vials of a steaming potion and it was enough to set Theodore's teeth on edge. He didn't want to be there.

His frustration almost made him turn to the nearest authority figure - his appointed chaperone for his first _appointment _\- and to shake him into understanding; to explain _again _how he hadn't been a Death Eater, so he shouldn't be punished. But he didn't. Theo had learned months before that no one cared.

There hadn't been a trial, not for him, although they had tried to get one. Theo supposed he should feel grateful for that small mercy, but he couldn't bring himself to. In the end, it hadn't mattered, it was eventually decided that even the unmarked 'associates' of known Death Eaters required _rehabilitation_. Pansy had referred to them as 'evil adjacent', and Theo had wished he was able to laugh in reply.

He'd been assigned a 'community project' from the ministry's spinning wheel of humiliation and was told it would last for six months - a number seemingly plucked from the sky. Apparently, the time could be mitigated for 'good behaviour'; the ministry pencil pusher assigned to his 'case' had told him as much, all while conveying that he didn't believe Theo was capable of it. Theo hated himself for agreeing.

It wasn't that he thought he would do something stupid like abscond or raise his wand in anger, but Theo didn't believe he was capable of the bowing and scraping that the new regime expected of him.

He had been handed his first file that morning, and he'd felt his heart sink. It had been another sign that those in power did not understand them. _Did they believe that just because they had been on the other side, they had no trauma? That it wouldn't hurt them to revisit the worst of the war as well? _They must have thought he was devoid of every proper feeling to assign him Lavender Brown.

Theo hadn't known her at school; all he could recall was her house and hair colour, that and what had happened to her. Her fate had become a story whispered around at gatherings, a ghost story for their dark and murky times. Most of them - the survivors - had their own to share, Lavender's was worse than most. By a long chalk. Now he would have to sit by her bedside twice a week until the end of her stay, or the end of his sentence, whichever came first.

His chaperone gave him a cursory nod as they reached room #97, and Theo tried not to scowl. Blaise had told him to go on a charm offensive, to increase his chances of 'early release'. Theo was perfectly aware that charm had never been a ready weapon in his arsenal, and so he had made peace with the somewhat more achievable aim of trying not to be outwardly offensive.

He shook out his shoulders, straightened his sleeves and wished he could do something about the potent disinfectant smell he was sure was burning the hair in his nostrils.

Then, with nothing else left to do, Theo raised his hand and knocked.


	15. Bruises

**Bruises**

Prompt: Harry x Narcissa - Bruises  
for weestarmeggie17

* * *

Ever since childhood, Narcissa had understood the value of perfection. It had been drummed into her even before she'd had enough words to articulate the lessons she was being taught, but she'd felt it.

_Keep your dress clean, or you'll not get any new ones. _

_Speak unless spoken to, or lose the right to speak at all. _

_Make the right friends or lose something you care about, or someone. _

Her parents had belonged to the 'spare the rod and spoil the child' school of parenting, there was no such thing as positive reinforcement in her household, and so Narcissa had learned quickly to survive. By the time she attended Hogwarts she was fully versed in the rules of her existence, they not only governed the minutia her life but also provided the framework for which she was to judge everyone else she interacted in.

Despite the hardships, Narcissa revelled in the quest for perfection, to her it simplified things, it made what could be a complicated life easier to understand. If her shoes didn't match her outfit, she wasn't perfect, so it wasn't the right choice. If a potential friend had a muggle grandmother, they weren't perfect so they couldn't associate.

Narcissa had known the moment she saw Lucius Malfoy that he was the match for her. Just one look at him and she could imagine a picture of them together, sitting proudly on her mother's mantelpiece for her to show off to all of her friends. It didn't matter what he was like, that was always a bit of a gamble for her set and she had been told time and time again that love wasn't a factor for her, _like_ wasn't even considered.

Narcissa had always known her value was all in the potential alliance she could make through marriage. She hadn't been deemed capable of providing anything else.

Bellatrix had been granted leeway, more than her sisters in any case. Her parent's had seen her older sisters power, the savagery lying not quite dormant behind her beauty, and they had twisted their teachings to nurture the beginnings of that wildness.

Andromeda had not been so fortunate. Deemed neither as powerful as Bellatrix or as beautiful as Narcissa, she had been seen as a failure from the off. Narcissa introverted her feelings to the point of existing at home as a passive observer. But Andromeda hadn't been capable of that level of detachment, or any, come to think of it. She said that their parent's obsession with the unattainable made the margin for failure too high. So she did the unthinkable, Andromeda forgot all of their expectations and sank even further than they could ever have expected, and ran off with a muggleborn.

Narcissa had known of Ted Tonks; he was a good looking boy who was always smiling. As far as she knew he didn't have a galleon to his name, so she supposed her sister had married for love, or to get as far away from the rest of them as possible. Maybe even both.

Outwardly Narcissa condemned her sister and soon after Hogwarts, she married Lucius to keep her family happy and to help them recover from her sister's shame. On her wedding day, she brushed her long hair, wore the dress her mother picked and didn't issue a complaint from sunrise to sunset. It was the day the obligations to her parents ended, and the day those to her husband began.

Lucius was a good husband, by pureblood standards. He gave her a son, took her arm when they went places and spoke to her warmly though with the same sort of questioning tone her mother had always had - as if she doubted her ability to sift through and understand the more difficult concepts of life.

At night, in her private chambers, Narcissa dreamt of a gentle touch that would come along and wake her up from the coldness that surrounded her. She waited for years, and it never came.

So, after the war, once the immediate terror had passed, Narcissa did what all Black's do when they are faced with emotions they don't understand, she rebelled; inappropriately, defiantly, and secretly.

Blood will out, or so the saying went. There was only so long you could repress emotion before it stopped trying to crawl out of your mouth and began leaking from your pores.

Nothing was more rebellious than a dalliance with Harry Potter; with his unkempt hair, askew glasses and muggleborn and blood traitor best friends. He was perfect, from his disdain for the pureblood world - part of his own heritage - and his total unwillingness to play the role of the war hero. Narcissa admired his defiance and hated him for it all at once.

Everything about him was wrong and yet, at the same time, so right.

There was nothing gentle about his touch, nothing at all, and yet it woke her up from the coldness of her life as if he had deliberately set it ablaze.

He didn't care for her, or so he said, but Narcissa didn't care either, so it was no matter.

Their shared hatred became an almost violent force when they were together, and it was those moments that Narcissa clung to afterwards when all she had to show for it were the haunting whispers of words in her ear and the marks on her skin.

Perfect, perfect marks.

* * *

_A/N: Hello lovely readers. If you are still waiting on a prompt request to be fulfilled please hold tight. I am working my way through a few more half-finished ones and hope to have some more up over the next few weeks._


	16. Slow Hand

**Slow Hand**

Prompt: [Sirius x Hermione] for TimeRose

_Darlin' don't say a word, cause I already heard  
__What your body's sayin' to mine  
__I'm tired of fast moves  
__I've got a slow groove  
__On my mind_

Slow Hand / The Pointer Sisters [1981]

* * *

It was his hands that did for her in the end, or so Hermione would muse years later. At least, they were the beginning. Even after age began to take its toll on her mind, she was still one to theorise. The world made more sense when she could explain _everything_. It brought her comfort. Not as much comfort as Sirius Black had, but then, that would have been an almost impossible feat.

Hermione had spent a fair amount of time watching him over the years. Most particularly, when he was sitting holding a glass between his fingers, which was worryingly often. His fingers were tattooed and rough, and his skin was aged beyond his years from his time in prison. Despite his brash manners and blunt speech, his hands had always moved with a confident grace that Hermione had struggled to ignore.

But, even though they were captivating to look at, it wasn't their _appearance_ that enthralled her to the point that she couldn't look away. It was the promise of what those hands offered.

Sin, salvation and everything in between.

* * *

After the ashes of war were cleared away, the _real_ work began. Things needed to be mended, cleaned and evaluated, and not just Hogwarts. Kingsley Shacklebolt tore down both the aberrant physical structures and the systemically privileged system within the Ministry of Magic and began anew.

He wasn't the only one looking to make wholesale changes.

The Weasley's began rebuilding the Burrow; Harry went into therapy and Hermione? She took six months off.

A whole half-year, that was what she had promised herself in those dark moments in that dingy tent on the run. Now they had done it, actually pulled off the impossible and won the day, Hermione refused to go back on her word, and she left.

She sank into the time like it was the softest mattress. Hermione focused on herself now that she was away from everyone else, taking the chance to patch herself up the best she knew how. It was maybe a little self-indulgent, and a bit of a cliche but she wanted, no, needed, to find out _what_ she wanted to be for herself, not as Harry's friend or an Order operative, but as Hermione Granger. A girl she had almost forgotten existed outside of the boxes she had been put into.

Six months to the day of her departure, Hermione came back, as she always knew she would, but now she needed to do more than just dust herself off. Now she needed to build a structure of a life up from the rubble that lingered.

Looking back, she was clearly waiting for something, waiting for him, probably. But everything was more apparent with hindsight. At the time, Hermione just felt lost.

* * *

Sirius returned from the veil the very day _after _Hermione arrived back from _gallivanting around the world_, as Ron had called it.

Harry had been delighted by the sudden appearance of his Godfather. Everyone else had been flummoxed and, if they were truly honest, a little wary. No one knew how to explain it. Sirius had been _completely _gone. He had vanished without a trace. People from the Order had _seen_ him fall, and they had grieved for him. Then one day it was as if the veil had just spat him back out.

Sirius was in St Mungos for just over two months. Which was hardly surprising given that the first thing he did, following his 'rebirth' was collapse on the Ministry floor and cough up - what one Ministry employee referred to as - 'a shit load of blood.' Unbelievably, that eyewitness account had made it into the official report.

He was assigned a team of Healers that worked in rotating shifts to stabilise both his body and his magic. Most of the damage they were repairing was legacy stuff from his time in Azkaban and on the run. He had never been adequately set to rights after his escape and Hermione hadn't ever imagined that Sirius had been living _the good life_ while alone in Grimmauld Place. He was malnourished, scarred and tired but otherwise amazingly, implausibly functional and whole.

Then, once they were finally satisfied, the team of Healers, who were amusingly sad to see him go, passed him over to the Department of Mysteries. Thankfully, Harry had negotiated, with the help of Kinglsey, for Sirius to be able to come home once he left the hospital. So Sirius went to the department every day for two weeks but was allowed to go back with Harry, as soon as the younger man finished his Auror shift.

The Unspeakables ran all sorts of tests, most of which were so bizarre that Sirius couldn't even identify the magic that had been used. But it was to no avail. The _official_ response was that they had no idea what had happened. With a lot of grumbling and three Unspeakables assigned a ten-year project to study the veil and its mysteries, Sirius was free to go. _Truly_ free this time, as Kingsley had commanded his record be expunged after the war. It had been a symbolic gesture, a move to show how this government would seek to right the wrongs of the past. It felt less hollow now Sirius could actually benefit from it.

Sirius moved in with Harry and Hermione at Grimmauld Place, a house that now looked so different than it had during the war it was wholly unrecognisable to him. It hadn't been Hermione's plan to move in, but when she had first come back she hadn't made any other arrangements, and Harry had insisted.

After the war, Harry was keen - _too keen_ it felt like sometimes - to hold them all close. Hermione had eventually given in to his demands that she live with him and Sirius on a semi-permanent basis. Hermione didn't ask Sirius what he thought of the arrangement. She wasn't brave enough.

* * *

Sirius was a tidier housemate than Hermione had anticipated. While he didn't seem to care what anyone else did, he liked to have his own things in order, and he took care of his possessions in a surprisingly methodical manner.

About a month after Sirius began staying full time at the house, free from Ministry interference, Hermione found him in the kitchen with a cloth in his hand, and his beaten-up leather jacket stretched out across the long table.

"Sorry, should I leave you two alone?" she asked with a quirk of her brow as Sirius made an inventory of repair work.

He smirked at her. His lips slipping into a familiar pinch as his eyes danced with long-forgotten mischief. He'd never done that _to her _before. Against all her better judgement, Hermione found the expression devastatingly affecting.

"Who knew you had a sense of humour?" Sirius teased and moved back out of her way. "Don't mind me, Poppet, essential maintenance."

Hermione made the tea she had come in for and was intending to head straight back out again, but she couldn't help but pause at the door. She watched Sirius work the cloth over the aged leather with an unusual amount of fascination. He was cleansing the fabric and then polishing it with a black tinged paint in smooth circular motions that were habitual, even if he probably hadn't followed this routine for years.

The tips of his fingers had blackened from his work, and his hand clenched and bit into the soft shammy in his palm. Hermione would never have believed Sirius was capable of such patience if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes.

She gripped her teacup a little tighter and walked away from the doorjamb, finally letting go of a sigh as she climbed the stairs.

This might be a problem.

* * *

Over time, Hermione noticed that Sirius liked to play with his hair, especially when it was newly cut, which it was, often. Hermione couldn't understand that level of meticulousness focussed on something as banal as hair. Reluctantly, Sirius had eventually admitted that although he _liked it _long if his hair grew below his shoulders, the ends began to curl and he _hated it _when it curled. It was quite humorous to think that a man as famously devil may care as Sirius could be so vain.

They were sitting around the table at the Burrow all ready to have Sunday lunch when Sirius decided to make an appearance. He wasn't one of the ones that could be relied upon to show up every week, but he made it to most dinners, especially if it was a special occasion, which, given how many of them were part of this extended family, it almost always was.

He skirted the edges of the room for a while before settling with Remus and Tonks and eventually finding his place before Mrs Weasley served.

When Sirius had first got back from the veil, large crowds and excessive noise had been too much for him, much like they were for Remus if the moon was close. But, with the patience and perseverance of those that loved him, Sirius had steadily built up his resilience. It was probably helped along by more alcohol than was good for him, but Hermione didn't think it was her place to judge. Or rather, it wasn't her place to comment, she couldn't stop herself from judging.

Later, once they were all too full of food to protest when Mrs Weasley suggested they stay for drinks, Hermione watched Sirius as he stood in a crowd of the boys, exchanging stories that were making Percy blush like a beacon.

Sirius' fingers reached up to push his hair behind his right ear and then, not a moment later, the very same fingers pulled the strands down again. It happened over and over. Back then forward, back then forward. It was maddening, and it made Hermione's fingers itch, she wanted to touch his hair herself.

"You're staring again," Fleur said as she sat down on the sofa Hermione had retreated to and bumped her shoulder.

Hermione sighed; she was doing that a lot lately. "I know," she admitted. She fiddled with her fingers as anxiety began to bloom in her stomach. "Is it really obvious? Does everyone know?"

Fleur shook her head. "I don't think you're _obvious _enough." Hermione made a spluttering sound, and Fleur passed her a drink. "The girls might have noticed something, but none of the boys. Men are stupid, Hermione, as a general rule."

Hermione bit her lip and tried to keep her gaze focused on her friend. "That's a relief."

Fleur eyed her critically. "You want him to _know_, don't you?"

"I'm not sure," Hermione replied and dropped her head on Fleur's shoulder.

Sirius headed towards the back door to go outside with a small crowd and Hermione didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

* * *

Hermione was in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, ostensibly doing some washing up but she was paying more attention to the window above the sink than the crockery in her hands. In the small garden beyond, Sirius was tinkering with his bike and Hermione was inside, watching him and debating her next move. She was spying, she supposed, but it didn't feel good to admit that.

Hermione watched him as he worked, laying under the bike on a dirty patch of grass as he covered himself in grime. The sight should have made her recoil. Hermione _hated_ mess. But, it suited Sirius, as stupid as that sounded.

She had been debating going out there for more than ten minutes. When Fleur had spoken to her at the Burrow Hermione had initially tried to ignore the conversation. Fleur was a lot more self-confident than her, but it was getting harder to deny that the part-Veela had a point.

When Sirius had first come back from the veil, Hermione had developed what she had thought of at the time as a harmless crush. Then, she had merely thought of it as _bloody inconvenient _because they were living together. But, over time, those unruly little butterflies in her stomach, had morphed into something _much_ more potent. Her growing feelings clawed at her awareness _all the time _and made Hermione _painfully _unsure what she should do now.

_Should she suppress it and hope it went away? Should she act on it to find closure, and hope his likely rejection didn't humiliate and crush her?_

Hermione's hand had been hovering over the lemonade pitcher, thinking to take Sirius out a cup. Her crush had meant that she usually stayed quiet around him until he initiated a conversation. He had the most infuriating ability to make her tongue-tied. Hermione thought the drink would have been a good ice breaker, so to speak. A reason to go out there and not look like she was hovering.

Hermione glanced out once more as Sirius reached up to untie a partially rusted screw. The action rode up the bottom part of the faded t-shirt he was wearing, exposing a sinewy, muscled stomach.

Hermione's cheeks burned and her hand clenched in the air above the jug. Then she walked away.

_You are not a coward Hermione Granger_, she said to herself. Maybe if she said it enough times, she could get herself to believe it?

* * *

Hermione was _trying_ not to watch and giving it more effort than usual. Though, as ever, it was a losing game.

In a fit of nostalgia, Harry had decided they should all go to the Three Broomsticks for Friday night pints, and when faced with that much enthusiasm, nobody had the heart to tell him no.

Hermione was sandwiched between the twins, trying to pay attention to their admittedly rather funny story about their latest product experiment failure, while Sirius was _making friends_ with a lady at the bar. He'd gone up to get drinks ages ago but had got so distracted that in the end, Remus had gone on a recovery mission. He'd banged Sirius on the shoulder picking up the tray that had been languishing on the side and headed back to much fanfare. But Sirius had stayed up at the bar.

The witch he was aiming (what Hermione now knew to be his not inconsiderable) charms on, had been sitting on a stool, nursing a glass of wine when he had first approached. Sirius had been edging closer and closer as they chatted and laughed. By Hermione's reckoning, it wouldn't be long before he was on the witch's lap or vice versa.

At some point, three or four drinks Hermione shouldn't have had later; she looked up from the Quibbler article draft Luna had brought along and caught Sirius trailing the backs of his fingers down the witch's bare arm. The gesture was affectionate as well as unquestionably intimate, and Hermione's tongue suddenly felt too large for her mouth.

"Are you okay, Hermione?" Luna asked, and Hermione forced herself to smile. She thought her face might snap and spring back like overstretched elastic, but she did it.

"I'm fine," she answered quickly. "Thank you, Luna." She looked down and handed the article back to her, "It's a great piece of writing."

Luna looked past where Hermione was sitting, past their group and towards the bar, and Hermione felt her face heat.

"I think if you let him know, his reaction might surprise you," Luna said as she placed her head into her upturned hand and peered thoughtfully in Sirius' direction.

Hermione scoffed as she picked at a divet in the battered table in front of her. "I wish I could believe you."

* * *

Later, _much later_, Hermione was lying in her bed with her blanket pulled up to her chin, trying to sleep. It was a fool's errand. A noise clattered from above her head, and she shut her eyes tight as if that would somehow have any effect. She was sure there was a circle of hell that closely resembled her current predicament.

Hermione had left the pub not long after her conversation with Luna and had managed to make it home, have a shower and settle into bed without incident. Unbelievably, despite everything that was going on in her mind, she had managed to fall asleep rather quickly. Unfortunately, she had been woken up an hour or so before by Sirius returning, and he was not alone.

Hermione had heard them as they haphazardly made their way up the stairs. The only thing that made more noise than a drunk person attempting to be quiet _was_ two drunk people trying the same. Hermione could hear every word they muttered and animatedly shushed each other for. She heard them as they entered Sirius' room, which by some cruel twist of fate was directly above hers.

Hermione had stared at the ceiling when Sirius' boots had been wrenched of his feet. They'd fallen with a familiar thunk. Previously, that noise had felt reassuring, that evening, it felt anything but.

When _other_ noises started, sounds that left Hermione in _no doubt_ of what was happening, she put a cushion over her head and groaned. It wasn't good enough. Whoever Sirius' new paramour was, she was undoubtedly _enthusiastic _in her receipt of his attention. He was hardly less so, damn him.

Hermione fumbled around in the dark before she found her wand and cast the strongest silencer she could think of at her ceiling, then she sagged, breathing hard and slipped back between her covers. They'd felt comforting before, and now they were too cold and too empty.

She tossed and turned and tried to sleep. Somehow the false quiet was even more grating than the distant sounds of pleasure had been. Just because she didn't hear them didn't mean they weren't happening. Hermione threw her head back against the pillows and tried to trick herself into falling asleep. Her throat and eyes felt scratchy, and she hated herself for it. She blinked back an unwelcome rush of water from her eyes and swallowed until it didn't hurt.

_Eventually_, after reciting times tables to herself for over an hour, Hermione drifted into a restless sleep.

* * *

When Hermione came down into the kitchen the next day, it was busy. Harry was at the table working his way through a stack of toast and the Daily Prophet, and Remus was there, presumably expecting to go for breakfast with Sirius. Only, Sirius still had company. The girl from the bar was there, clad in what must have been a pair of his boxers, and what Hermione recognised as his prized ZZ Top, Worldwide Texas Tour t-shirt.

"Hermione," Remus greeted warmly and pulled out the chair next to him. Hermione thought she recognised a touch of concern in his face, and she was a little embarrassed but not surprised. She had seen the dark circles under her eyes before she came down, and Remus had always been very kind to her.

"Rough night?" he asked as he proffered her a cup and Hermione nodded.

"Something like that."

Harry opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by a throaty guffaw from Sirius who was leaning into the girl, _woman_, who preened under his attention. Sirius swatted her behind in retribution for whatever remark she had made, and Hermione wondered if she would get her throat to function well enough to allow her to finish her tea. Breakfast was now entirely out of the question.

She was so bloody tired.

* * *

The next morning, when Hermione entered the kitchen, feeling slightly better than she had before, she found it blessedly empty. She faffed about to her heart's content, stretching out the paper and putting together a bowl of cereal and some juice. She was on her second cup of tea when Sirius walked in, fully clothed and on his own.

He greeted her warmly, and Hermione managed a monosyllabic reply and got back to her breakfast. She felt like she had to try to act _natural, _which was so pathetic it made her want to cry. She lowered her spoon and tried to review Percy's latest article on Ministry regulation changes until Sirius pulled out the seat next to her.

She jumped. Hermione was mortified and enraged. Of all the seats he could have picked (there were twelve others for the love of God) he just _had_ to sit next to her. In her eyes, it was further proof, if proof were needed, that he was wholly unaffected by her.

"Is everything okay?" he asked kindly as he leant over her to pick up the sports section. Hermione never bothered with it. It wasn't as if people didn't talk about that stuff all the livelong day anyway.

"Sure," she said with a shrug and handed him the international affairs pages. She had finished with that already. She liked to get the most complicated readings out of the way first, even at the weekend.

"You know if there is anything bothering you…" Hermione's hand stilled. "Or anything you needed, you can ask me."

Hermione inhaled and exhaled and then plastered a brittle smile on her face. "Thank you, Sirius. I'll keep that in mind."

Harry entered soon after, and Hermione could not have been happier to see him.

* * *

Another week, another party, this time at Grimmauld Place. When Hermione was younger, she would never have imagined she would have so many close friends or such an active social life. War she supposed, did that to people. It had galvanised the Order together and would probably do so for the rest of their lives. Hermione had always felt excessively grateful for that. Until now.

Now she wished she could do what she had done at the beginning and disappear for a few months. Hopefully, she would get over this ridiculous infatuation and go back to being _relatively_ pleasant to be around. Hermione pulled herself away from the wall she had been resting against and went to get another drink.

As her hand landed on top of a wine bottle she picked at random another joined it. It was Sirius'.

"Let me get that," he said, but he never removed his hand, he just shifted it slightly off hers so he could grip the bottle and then directed it towards a glass. His fingers stayed over hers, and they were impossibly warm.

"Thank you," Hermione said politely and then wracked her brain for something else she could say. She came up with nothing, and after a few moments of increasingly awkward silence, she pulled her fingers away and managed a brief 'see you later' before disappearing back into the crowds.

Hermione made sure she was with people after that, she talked, she drank, and she laughed. She made a concerted effort to enjoy herself, and she thought that for once, she had managed to fake it passably. But behind the smiles, Hermione couldn't get the image of their overlapped hands out of her mind.

His hands were beautiful she realised and a mass of contradictions, just like the rest of him.

For once, Hermione got very, very drunk.

* * *

After the party, Hermione felt like Sirius was everywhere. Before now, there had been times when they had gone several days with only a quick interaction - they kept very different hours - now they didn't even seem to ever be in a separate room, apart from when they slept.

When Hermione got back from work, Sirius would be there, in the kitchen, ready to have dinner. At the weekend he would be in the garden, sat up by the small table and chairs she favoured. In the evenings he would be in the library, ready to suggest a book or laughingly offer a foot rub. Hermione had come dangerously close to taking him up on it a couple of times. She was losing her restraint, which was fine, her self-control could fly the nest and go and live with her heart and her sanity who had both buggered off months ago.

* * *

Hermione had been hesitant to go to the pub the next time it was suggested. Although this one was Muggle, and Sirius wasn't seeing the witch from the other night anymore, it didn't mean there wouldn't be another one. She didn't begrudge him it, not really, Hermione was painfully learning that the selfless nature of love really did mean that you wanted to see someone happy, even if it wasn't with you. She just didn't want to watch it play out in front of her. Or hear it, ever, _ever_ again.

In the end, Hermione had been unable to resist a pair of pleading eyes, Ron's this time, and so she agreed so would come by later in the evening.

When she arrived, Sirius was already there, though, instead of standing on the peripheries and heading to the bar every half an hour, he was sat at the table. When he saw her, Sirius gestured for Hermione to come and sit next to him and produced a drink that he had been saving before talking her ear off about some reform bill the Ministry was working on.

Hermione had known that Sirius was in the process of reinstating the Black seat on the Wizengamot, she had also known he was bright. She was surprised by how _interested_ he seemed in some of the topics he had been looking up in preparation. Remus had always painted him as someone who wasn't keen on taking on his birthright or getting to grips with the admittedly slippery world of politics. Maybe things had changed now he was back?

Hermione was in a state of extended bliss that skirted around a growing well of agony. It was _wonderful_ to be the object of Sirius' full attention. It was something she had imagined often, but her musings had not done it justice. He asked her questions, and when Hermione replied, he hung on her every word. They argued and disagreed, but the once biting heat that had existed between them had tempered into something far more captivating and alluring.

Hermione knew it couldn't last. She wondered if she was hurting herself more by allowing it to happen, by giving herself more fantasy material to chop up and rehash later, when she got into bed, alone.

By the end of the night, Sirius had his arm draped around her, and they talked while many of the others paired off. Hermione felt his arm tighten around her waist when Percy benignly asked if she wanted to meet up the next day, and she tried not to let her heart race.

She failed.

* * *

The following weekend, Hermione was in the garden at Grimmauld place, lounging in a deck chair that Harry had brought for her when she heard loud voices in the kitchen. She couldn't _see _anything from her low vantage point, but it was unmistakably Remus and Sirius talking… or rather, arguing.

Hermione was unsettled, they never quarrelled, not intently in any case, but after a moment's indecision, she opted to remain where she was. She didn't want to overhear anything accidentally, but she thought it might be more awkward to walk into the kitchen and try to announce her presence subtly.

Sometime later, after the muffled yelling quieted, the back door slammed, and Sirius came outside, pushing his hands into his hair before rifling through his pockets. He started when he saw her and Hermione offered what she hoped was an unaffected wave.

"Can I sit with you?" he asked as he approached and Hermione tried to morphe her face into something resembling welcome.

"Of course," she replied cautiously.

Sirius noisily dragged over one the centuries-old wrought iron chairs and Hermione cringed at the thought of the marks he would have left on the patio. Once he was near enough for his liking, Sirius slumped down onto the seat, which must have been as hot as an oven, and stretched out his legs and tipped his head back to show his face to the sun.

Hermione felt uncomfortable with his proximity and the seat he had chosen. It gave him the distinct advantage of being considerably higher than her. She wiggled in her deckchair and tried to prop up her knees in a way that obscured her stomach before giving up entirely.

"Everything okay?" she asked a little while later, once it was clear Sirius was not intending to speak.

He scoffed. "Fine."

"Convincing," she said lightly, and Sirius crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

Hermione tried to concentrate on her book, but her efforts were for nothing when Sirius began to kick at the front foot of her seat absently. The impact shook the whole of her chair, and Hermione glared up at him until he noticed and stopped.

"Harry said," he began eventually, playing with the ends of his hair. "Harry said you might be moving out."

Sirius' words hung between them, and Hermione had a fleeting thought that maybe this was the reason he was upset? She scoffed at her own delusions. Hope was a bastard.

His words had brought Hermione up short. She hadn't expected Harry to say anything. They had been having dinner just the two of them the week before, and Harry had asked about her plans. She'd ended up blurting out that she was thinking of moving. Harry hadn't seemed too keen. Hermione had felt bad for her friend, but for once, her sense of self-preservation won out over inevitable guilt.

Hermione looked at the man next to her, the exquisite, complicated man that was collecting up bits of her heart without even realising it, without even trying. She needed to get on with her life. She didn't want to see him with someone else again. But then, that hadn't happened for a while.

She nodded and hummed. "I've been thinking about it."

"When? Why," Sirius demanded leaning forward till his shadow draped over her.

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know. I've not made any concrete plans yet."

"Don't," Sirus said passionately, and Hermione stilled. "Don't make any plans, just stay."

"Sirius," Hermione said, softly begging him not to make this any more difficult for her than it had to be.

"Please," he said instead, and Hermione felt her resolve disappear. "For now?"

Hermione's fingers bit into the book in her lap, and she felt oddly close to crying. They were both having the same conversation and yet Sirius had no idea what he was asking her, how cruel he was inadvertently being. But she could not say no to anyone, not when they looked at her like that, especially him.

"Okay," she said finally, and Sirius grinned, jumping to his feet and rubbing his hands together. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, happy and eager.

_A backbone? _Hermione thought caustically, but instead, she said, "Lemonade?"

"Sure," he agreed brightly and sauntered back inside the house. A house that Hermione had committed herself to staying in no matter what it cost her.

She let her head fall into her hands and soaked up the few minutes of silence before he came back, and the pretence would begin again.

* * *

At the next Weasley family dinner, once the food had been cleared away, Hermione waved off her friends when they went outside to play Quidditch (even after all these years, they still asked if she wanted to join) and instead she found herself fannying about in the kitchen, trying to make Victoire laugh. It wasn't all that difficult, which was a lot of the fun. There was something amazing for the ego in how funny toddlers thought adult nonsense was.

Victoire gasped and then giggled as a clump of flour Hermione had been levitating, changed colour and then dissipated into the air with a soft clap. Hermione smiled, Victoire was a darling child and though Hermione would say she _never _played favourites - the little girl in front of her had won her heart a long time ago.

Children, Hermione found, were a wonderful distraction to whatever by play was going on around her and she had almost wholly zoned out of the ongoing adult conversation until Mrs Weasley's voice stomped it's way back into her consciousness.

"Hermione should meet him," the matriarch insisted.

"Hermione, should meet who?" she asked as she dusted some rouge flour from off her nose.

"There is a _new wizard_ in Ron's department at work, he's just transferred from-" Mrs Weasley continued, but Hermione had stopped listening, again. She grinned at Ron when he mouthed that he was _sorry_ and tried not to laugh as Ginny began rolling her eyes at her mother's antics. Soon enough, Hermione was back to practising letters with Victoire, who was _ver_y advanced for a two-year-old, even if Hermione was utterly biased.

"Not interested?"

Hermione would have known that voice anywhere, her hand wavered, leaving her with a rather shaky 'w' that made Victoire brow furrow.

"In what?" she asked as she set the sparkly blue crayon down and Sirius pulled out a chair in front of her. He smiled at Victoire and rubbed her cheek, and the little girl stuck her tongue out at him with a grin before shuffling closer to Hermione and holding onto her trousers. Hermione mentally added another gift to the list for Victoire's next birthday.

Sirius began flicking through the crayons on the table as if he was deeply interested, but the taught lines of his shoulders gave him away. "In whoever Molly has decided will be the next Mr Hermione Granger," he explained tightly. Hermione shrugged.

"Not really." She picked up the black crayon and held it under her nose by puffing up her upper lip. Victoire squealed and clapped her chubby little hands together. Sirius watched them with a soft look in his eyes that made a hole appear in Hermione's stomach.

"And you don't mind her _constantly_ wanting to set you up with people?"

"Is it constant?"

"It's happened at the last three dinners, love."

Hermione's throat constricted at the ease at which the epithet fell from his lips. She wished he'd have a care. Sirius threw words around like knives and wherever he seemed to be aiming they always pierced her heart and ripped her flesh.

"Her heart is in the right place," she said finally and stared at the table so she wouldn't have to look at his face.

Victoire pointed to a squiggly shape she had drawn, and Hermione palmed her wand. She pressed it against the parchment, and the slanty pink square danced across the page.

"What about," Sirius began causally. "What if _I_ had someone I wanted to recommend?"

Hermione pushed her wand back in her pocket and reached for the water she had thankfully brought with her when she moved from the dinner table. At that present moment, she couldn't think of anything worse than being handed over to one of Sirius' friends like some absurd constellation prize.

"Hermione?"

"That would," she managed to say. "That would depend on who it was."

It was a lie, of course, he could not have named a single person that would have piqued her interest. Not now, not for a long time, maybe never if the recommendation came from _his_ lips.

Victoire climbed down from her lap, no doubt bored with Hermione's increasing inattention and waddled over to her mother. Hermione saw Fleur eying her encouragingly, and she blew out a large breath. _Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Nothing to be won in regrets._ She pulled the crayon tin towards herself and began putting them back in their proper places. Having something to do with her fingers was useful, necessary.

"I don't want to date one of your friends, Sirius."

There, that was honest. Blunt but honest.

Sirius shifted in his seat, edging it closer and then leaning forward over the small table that separated them. "That's erm… that's pretty good news. I don't suppose you would consider me?"

Hermione spluttered. "_You_? I mean-"

Sirius ran a hand over his jaw and then Hermione saw it, it was the same expression he sometimes had in the morning, after bad nightmares, or sometimes after too many drinks when the gap between the present and his memories was at its thinnest. Sirius was feeling vulnerable, _about her_, Sirius cared, _about her_.

"Yes," Hermione said, nodding emphatically, wanting to end his discomfort and her eternal torment. "I would more than consider it. I would…. I would like that very much."

Sirius stood up abruptly knocking the chair he had been sat in so it clattered on the scrubbed kitchen floor. He traversed the table in two long strides and then pulled Hermione up out of her seat and pressed his lips against hers. There was no preamble, no soft meeting of mouths. His lips were on hers for less than five seconds before his tongue begged for entry against her lips, and Hermione granted permission, powerless and unwilling to do anything else.

Hermione quickly recovered from her surprise and elation, and, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, she lurched forward to grip the lapels of his jacket, anchoring him to her while he _devoured _her mouth. Endeavouring to keep up her end, Hermione poured _months_ of repressed hopes and the expectation of a shattered heart into the kiss. She felt her mind reach closer to a longed-for equilibrium with every nibble of Sirius' teeth and sweep of his tongue.

Minutes later they broke apart for air, and you could have heard a pin drop. Reality came crashing down around her ears and just when she began to panic, Sirius pulled Hermione against his chest, guided her head under his chin and gripped her shoulders tightly. It was instinctual she realised, he didn't know what people were going to say and he acted to protect her. She hoped whatever plan he had for her was long term. At this point, she couldn't see herself ever wanting anyone or anything as much as she wanted him.

"I think Caspar Pike is going to have to find himself another date Mum," Ron said, sounding positively gleeful. "Looks like Mione's spoken for."

"I'll say she is," Sirius growled, but the intimidating effect he was no doubt aiming for was diminished by her lip gloss being smeared all over his mouth making him look thoroughly snogged.

"Sorry," he muttered, once people had stopped staring at them with the mouths agape, though he sounded anything but. "Couldn't stop myself. Was that… alright?"

"Yes," Hermione agreed quickly and then moved around him, so he was positioned facing away from their audience. She reached up to smudge away the 'poppy punch' shade that had been smooshed all over his face. "Could you do it again… when there are fewer people around?"

The grin he gave her was positively feral, and it sent shivers down her spine.

"Anything for you Poppet."

* * *

Later that night, Hermione was resting in the bath of one of the surprisingly grand bathrooms at Grimmauld Place. She wasn't alone. After dodging most of the teasing at the Burrow, Hermione had decided it was best to call it an early night and said her goodbyes. She had flushed darker than ever before when Sirius announced he was leaving with her. He'd linked their hands before they went through the floo and since that moment they'd not once entirely relinquished contact.

Hermione had briefly hesitated when Sirius had led her to his bedroom. Something had screamed at her that it was _too soon_ that they should date first. _But why?_ They knew each other, better than most people knew anyone they started out with. Plus, she had been fantasising about it _forever_.

After they had peeled off each other's clothes and given into a growing lust that Hermione had been fighting to suppress for months, Sirius had gathered up her spent body and pulled her into the bath with him.

Hermione had settled between his surprisingly muscular thighs, but it wasn't long before Sirius pulled her up onto his lap. Hermione had no protests to offer, not even when his hands began moving, displacing the bubbles that had formed on the surface of the bath and gripping her breasts with a hungry, possessive zeal. The heat of the water accentuated how much darker his skin was, and how oddly blanks hers looked compared with his tattoos.

A life lived, she thought as she ran her hands over his.

A life just beginning, she thought as she saw her skin flush.

Sirius kissed along her shoulder before trailing one hand down her body to grip at her waist and lift her as if she weighed nothing at all.

"Hermione," he bit out like a plea. It was a question, and a promise all rolled into one and Hermione had never felt more powerful in her life. She nodded slightly, and he angled her body until she sunk on top of him with enough force to send water gushing over the side of the tub.

Hermione released a long steady moan, filling fuller than the bath surrounding her and Sirius panted and palmed her breast hard enough to be just on the right side of painful.

It turned out all of her imaginings of his hands paled into insignificance when experiencing what they could do _first hand, _so to speak. It was enough to make her insensible.

His fingers splayed against her abdomen, holding her in place and making her wiggle impatiently. "You'll stay?" Sirius grunted as Hermione squeezed down on him. "You'll stay living here with me."

"Yes," Hermione replied, reaching up to hold the side of the bath to help guide her movements as her legs tired. "I'll stay."

He huffed out a disbelieving laugh and bit at her neck hard enough to leave a bruise.

* * *

Two weeks later, Hermione and Sirius had migrated from the initial phase of their relationship that had seen them behind locked doors at every possible moment. Harry had jokingly quipped that he was going to have to leave home, to save his delicate sensibilities from being corrupted, but Hermione had seen that he was pleased. His approval was comforting.

Sirius walked slightly ahead of Hermione as they approached the pub Fred had picked for that week's meet up. Hermione was feeling tense, the building looked upstanding enough, but there was always a reason to be wary whenever the twins had planned their evening. She was too distracted to notice Sirius was slowing his steps, but before she opened the door, he pulled on her hand and raised the linked fingers, studying her fervently.

"Is this okay?" he asked, gesturing to their entwined fingers.

"Yes," Hermione replied quickly, offering him a shy smile, and they entered the pub to a chorus of baldy insinuations about their absence for the last few weeks.

* * *

Hermione watched Sirius as he paced around the library and thought about what she should say. It was the anniversary of Regulus' death, the only day that affected Sirius worse than his fallen brother's birthday. His mood had been darkening as the day wore on.

Sirius had a flame lit under him, he wanted to go out, to run, fight, do _something_, but Hermione wasn't sure she was the best person to help him with that. She'd half thought about offering him sex, but somehow that didn't seem like the best idea. She didn't mind it when he lost control with her, in fact, she rather liked it, but not for these reasons, not because he was working out grief and frustration so wholly unconnected with her. With no better plan, Hermione left him to it, letting Sirius do what he needed while she remained close and read a book.

Hours later, or so she assumed, she was woken up as Sirius jostled her picking her up. _How had she fallen asleep? _

"Sorry," she mumbled as he started up the stairs. "That wasn't very supportive of me."

Sirius harrumphed but carried on walking. Hermione leant up and pushed a piece of hair behind his ear before kissing his cheek. It was stubbly and rough, and there were days when she felt like he exfoliated away more layers of her skin than she could afford to lose, but she _loved _the way it looked.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"Not really," Sirius sighed. "Same as usual, too many questions, no way of getting answers."

Her heart ached for him. He'd lost so much. Harry had asked her before, about the resurrection stone, it had to be somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, and if they looked for it properly, they were sure they could find it. Ultimately, they had decided against it. Hermione had read the story of the three brothers so often she had almost committed it to memory. She wouldn't lose Sirius to shadows from his past.

Hermione thought of Regulus, what she knew from his diaries and what other people had said. She looked at Sirius as he carried her over the threshold of their room.

"I think he would have been proud of you, you know?" She whispered. Sirius started and looked down at her. "Regulus I mean. You've become the man you both wanted to be."

-/-/-/-

That night, when he made love to her, Sirius' hands spent most of their time on Hermione's face. Cradling her cheeks and tickling along her jaw. His eyes never left hers.

"I love you," he breathed out, "so fucking much."

Hermione wrapped herself around him as tight as she could, knowing he needed it.

"I just wish… I wish he could have seen me now, seen who I am with you. I wish you'd been there to stop me, to make me see to… I just-"

"Shhh," she interjected, kissing his face to hide the tears in her eyes.

Hermione held him while he slept.

* * *

To Hermione, a person that had always struggled with interpreting emotions from others, Sirius' knack for acting and speaking completely how he felt was a blessing. While he could be prone to dramatics and hyperbole, she found that when it mattered, he could be deliberate and shockingly without performance.

When he proposed, there was no flashy dinner, cast of thousands or skywriting plane. They were sitting in the back garden, both with books in their hands.

"Hermione," he said, turning to her and Hermione hummed in response, her eyes scanning to the end of a paragraph.

"You know you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, right?"

Hermione folded her book closed and pushed her old sunglasses up on her head. "Is everything okay?"

"Of course," he replied, though he brushed his hand against his knees and flexed his fingers. It was a tell of his, whenever he was anxious about something he couldn't stop moving. "I just wanted to make sure that you're happy."

"I'm incredibly happy," she replied, sitting forward. "_You_ make me happy."

He grinned, it was a boyish expression that Hermione loved and hated all at once. It was beautiful as everything else about him was, but it was also depressingly rare. So much of Sirius had been stolen away over the years.

"Well, as long as that's the case. Would you… would you think about marrying me?"

To say Hermione hadn't expected it would be an understatement. Sirius had always been _very clear _about what he thought about traditional values. She'd interpreted that to mean that he didn't want to get married. Hermione had made her peace with it. It showed that she hadn't quite learnt her lesson yet, about being honest with him. Luna was right, as she often was, Sirius often surprised her.

When she began nodding before shock coloured yesses fell from her lips, Sirius smiled and leant back to push his fingers into his front pocket and pulled out a ring.

Hermione gasped. "Sirius, I can't believe you have been carrying around a ring like that, it's so dangerous. What if it had fallen out?"

Sirius chuckled. "Jeans this tight, there would be no way anything was getting in or out without my notice."

Hermione smiled, and he leant forward to push the ring on her finger. His calloused hands traced hers and pushed it past her knuckle until it was secure. It was a perfect fit.

Sirius's fingers lingered over her own, and he leant back in his chair to look at her. "Thank you," he said, and at once Hermione felt engulfed by the emotion that those two small words held.

"You're welcome."

* * *

_A/N: Some Sirimione for you. This one came out super quick while I was taking a break from doing battle with another Sirimione one-shot I am writing for Elemental that does not want to be written. You win some you lose someone. I hope you are all well and keeping safe. _


	17. Just A Taste?

**Just A Taste?**

Prompt: (via ) Regarding your prompt requests, I will boldly request something way out there, because I LOVE your talent at making rare pairs work/come alive. How about a never-before-seen rare pair of Hermione Granger and Florean Fortescue; very squicky post-Hogwarts — she likes to indulge in the occasional special delivery to her office, and he likes her flavour? (via )  
for anon

* * *

_A/N: So, if you've read the prompt, you will realise, this was __**not my fault**__. I tried my best. Enjoy… or not, as the case may be :)_

* * *

Hermione sat in her uncomfortable, cold wrought-iron seat and tried to relax. It should have been easy, the sun was shining, Diagon Alley was a haze of summer tranquillity, and she was with two of her dearest friends. It was a recipe for a perfect afternoon if ever she'd had one, and yet her mind was being violently assaulted with… with… pastels!

They were _everywhere_. An upmarket ladies' skirt, another ones' fingernail polish, the shopping bag of a little boy and all of the textbooks a group of teenagers were using while settled around a table a few hundred feet away.

Hermione was going mad. Utterly and unsalvagably mad. It had been getting worse for weeks, and at this point, she didn't know what she could do to stop the descent. It was getting so bad she was beginning to question if the colours were even there or whether she was only seeing them as part of some fanciful hallucination from her increasingly lurid imagination.

It wasn't to be borne. She couldn't carry on like this.

Hermione blinked behind her sunglasses and then pushed them onto her head, so they held back her hair.

"What's your…" she began hesitantly. "What's your upper age limit?"

Fleur and Tonks abruptly stopped the conversation they were having and turned to look at her quizzically.

Hermione wondered if this was worth the inevitable humiliation, but then, she thought about the sleepless nights she'd been having. She needed _some_ advice, and she certainly couldn't ask Harry or Ron, they would expire immediately, and Ginny would enjoy it all too much to be useful. She wasn't sure Luna operated under any kind of societal norms; as such, she wouldn't understand Hermione's hesitation. So, the two witches in front of her were Hermione's only hope.

"With men, I mean," she clarified with a shrug as she nervously ripped apart a used up sugar packet. "How _old_ do you think you would go to? If you weren't married, that is."

Fleur pursed her lips as if in serious thought. "I've never wondered before, have you?" she asked Tonks with interest. The other witch shook her head.

"It's hard to answer something like that without context," Tonks replied. "Remus is older than me, and maybe he is older than I would have _hypothetically _dated before, but then I met him, and despite his protests, age didn't matter for me."

Fleur nodded and stirred her coffee. "Same with Bill, though he's not that much older. There are a couple of wizards at work, both of whom are _quite_ a bit older, that are very attractive but I've never thought much of it as… well, I have my Bill."

Hermione's head whirled as a man in a strawberry coloured sweater walked past. _Did they even make clothes in that shade? _She had never seen anyone in the wizarding world wear anything like it before. Hermione rubbed her temples and sighed. She was going to have to admit herself to St Mungos at this rate.

"So, Hermione, who have you met?"

"Is he _much_ older than you?" Tonks asked, and although she was intrigued Hermione could detect a hint of protective worry.

Hermione held her cup to her chest as a defensive barrier and decided it was best to get it all out.

"Well, you remember months ago, when the Ministry opened up those booths in the canteen?"

"Yes," Tonks replied with a laugh. "I don't think Remus has stopped talking about it. Do you know he ate ice cream every day for a week?"

Hermione winced. This was going to take some telling.

* * *

The senior bods at Ministry had decided that people weren't _social_ enough. Some report had been run on internal networking, and the results showed that the number of key relationships throughout the building was dropping off. No department could afford to be siloed, and collaboration was critical to success and the upkeep of the new cultural values they were trying to instil. A period of brainstorming began the result of which were several new programmes being rolled out to all levels.

They started by putting on events in the evening, wine tastings and language classes and all other sorts of other nonsense designed to get people out of their offices and talking to each other. As much as Hermione found the entire plan irksome, she couldn't deny there was something to be said for it. Kingsley felt that _new_ networks needed to be established and that people needed to be _more visible_ for them to avoid falling back into the world of back door deals and cronyism that had underpinned the Ministry of the past.

Hermione wholeheartedly agreed, and she supported Kingsley in this as she had with everything else. She just wished she didn't have to take part.

The latest step in the growing efforts had been to set up a section of the Ministry canteen to allow different vendors to sell food. As with the evening events, it was another multi-layered strategy. The committee that the Minister's Office had put together reasoned that Ministry employees were more likely to stay longer and possibly even eat in the canteen if they were tempted with _nice_ food. The canteen food was _legendarily _awful, and yet nothing they had tried so far seemed to improve it. The booth idea was to create a kind of indoor market that, as well as getting people out of their offices, would also send much-needed revenue in the direction of businesses that were still trying to recover from losses incurred during the war.

Kingsley had admitted over dinner at the Burrow that they also hoped that such changes would have a PR advantage. They wanted the Ministry as a whole to be seen as a more open and approachable entity than it had in the dark days of 'Magic is Might'.

In the beginning, it had all be fine. Hermione, despite herself, had been charmed by the old fashioned brightly coloured wagons stationed on the far side of the canteen. She had made a point of visiting at least once a week to pick up something, even if it had only been sweets to take home for her friends.

Florean Fortescue's ice cream cart had been the last to become fully operational. The charm work required to keep the dessert suitably cool in such a clammy environment was unexpectedly intricate, and when it opened, it was the subject of much delight and chatter. Hermione had taken to getting her weekly treat from there and occasionally, even going as far to eat it in the canteen, much to Kingsley's surprised delight.

The cart was operated by Florean's son, Sebastian, a serene man in his early forties that reminded Hermione of a neighbour she'd had as a child. He wore a striped pink and white apron, a broad-brimmed white hat and most importantly a kind grin that always had Hermione changing her mind from one scoop to two.

After a few weeks of extraordinary success, the ice cream stand needed more help. Several of the young men and women Hermione had seen in the shop came in to cover a shift from time to time. Then, one day, Hermione noticed that Florean himself had started to come in for the odd few hours to see how things were going.

Hermione had never thought much of Florean Fortescue before. In her mind, he had been filed away as the man that owned the ice cream parlour from her childhood and not much else. She found she was surprised by how much she had taken for granted in seeing him again.

He was tall. No longer tall in that strange way adults looked to adolescents but way above average height. He had kind eyes, or so she thought, but there was a glimmer there too, something that she recognised from looking in the mirror or at her friends. Mr Fortescue had not had an easy war, that much was certain.

Covertly, Hermione had done what she could to find out about what might have happened to him, all the while firmly not asking herself why she cared. It had been Bill that told her in the end. He had interjected when Hermione had been trying to ask questions of Ron and Harry subtly. Florean had been kidnapped during the war, held by Death Eaters until the final battle when an Auror team had been able to assist in his escape. His shop had been all but destroyed, and it had taken him some time to rebuild.

Harry supplied a memory of Florean, from when he had stayed at the Leaky Cauldron for a couple of weeks. He had given Harry free ice cream and helped him with his History of Magic homework. The quiet, kind, humble man Harry spoke of was a person Hermione didn't think quite matched up with the Florean she had interacted with recently.

Florean was quiet still, but now he seemed more closed off. He did smile though that was hardly indicative of being happy; after all, he was selling his wares to the public. But Hermione had noticed that the expression never quite meet his eyes.

After some time of only dropping in intermittently, Hermione learnt from office gossip that Florean was now most likely to be seen on the stall on a Friday and that it was supposed to be his day off, he only came in to give his son a break and help out with the lunchtime rush.

Because Friday's were also the day she typically stopped for ice cream, Hermione found that she often met Florean on the stand more than she had Sebastian. Because it was his day off, he was never in uniform, and to Hermione, he looked very different out of it. Maybe she would never have noticed if it had been in his shop but being out of that setting, she was all the more aware of his casual clothes.

Florean often wore long sleeve t-shirts that were more closely fitted than were usually preferred by men of his age. Hermione couldn't help but notice that his arms were surprising built. She supposed all of the carryings of boxes she had seen him and Sebastian do would have that effect. For a wizard, he dressed with an appealing lack of frippery, and Hermione found she liked that most of all. He opted for simple, well-cut clothes, with not a brocade waistcoat or filigree in sight.

Still, despite her growing number of passing observations, Hermione felt she didn't take much notice of Florean until she began to suspect that _something_ in their interactions had changed. She couldn't put her finger on it. At first, she had attributed it to getting to know the man slightly better by nature of a weekly interaction. But then, she began to believe there was more to it than that.

-/-/-/-

"_I shouldn't be having this," Hermione admitted with a smile as she glanced towards Florean and collected her small tub of ice cream with a take away spoon pressed into the lid. Something about it always reminded her of the theatre, and it never failed to brighten her mood._

"_Why ever not?" He replied, and she bit her lip. Hermione loved his voice. Florean was well educated, that much was evident and his deep rumbling baritone whispered that he was originally from the north of England. His accent was cultured and smooth and just listening to him seemed to pressure and then alleviate the knots in her back._

"_It's my second this week," she replied and then muttered conspiratorially, wrapping one of her hands over the side of her mouth. "Don't tell anyone."_

_His hands gripped the scoop he was holding until his fingertips turned white, and Hermione thought she imagined it, but it looked as if his eyes darkened. _

"_Nothing wrong with a bit of what you fancy," he replied in a low voice, and Hermione felt her cheeks heat as she walked away. _

-/-/-/-

_Hermione arrived at the canteen later than usual and joined the back of the line feeling a little frazzled. The day was humid, the cooling charm in her office was broken, and she hadn't had a moment's rest since she had entered the building that morning. She wasn't wearing an outer robe, the air in the Ministry was far too hot for anything but the gauzy sleeveless blouse she had on, but she didn't like it. _

_Generally speaking, Hermione preferred to be more covered up. As one of the youngest Deputy Department Heads, she sometimes felt like she had to 'dress up' to play the part, for people to take her seriously. No matter, surely they would be able to see her bare arms and not take that as a sign she wasn't capable of doing her job?_

"_Hello," Florean greeted warmly when she finally got to the front. "I thought I might have missed you today."_

_Hermione smiled at his easy acknowledgement of noticing her comings and goings, but it made something in her stomach clench. _

"_Meetings," she explained with a shrug. It was not precisely accurate. There were a myriad of things that had made her day run late, meetings being just the tip of the iceberg. However, in her experience, people didn't want to know details when they made polite enquiries._

_Hermione rose onto her toes and almost pressed her face against the glass partition so she could get a better look. _

_Florean chuckled, and it made the air around her so thick Hermione could feel it pressing against the delicate skin on her throat. _

"_Mint chocolate chip?" he asked, and Hermione nodded. _

"_Yes," she replied, tilting her head to look at him properly. He was hiding a smile if she was any judge. His eyes had that telltale crinkle around them, one she had only started to see recently. "How did you know?"_

_She hadn't even known what she wanted until he had suggested it. _

"_Years of experience."_

_Was Hermione going mad, or had there been a deliberate emphasis on the word experience? She shook her head and reached up to take her bowl. He hadn't even needed to ask how much she wanted, and there were two scoops as usual. Their fingers connected for the briefest moment and his hands were surprisingly warm. Her eyes flicked up, and he regarded her seriously. Hermione felt compelled to say something, but then someone coughed behind her, and she realised she was holding up the line. She stuttered out her thanks and then headed off before someone got grumpy. It was Friday after all, and everyone would be on a hair-trigger until five o'clock came and brought the weekend with it._

_She thought about the look in his eyes, intent and yet far away, for the rest of the day. _

-/-/-/-

_Hermione had come down to the canteen very early that Friday morning. It wasn't unusual for her to be at the Ministry at that time, but typically, she would have gone straight to her office. Unfortunately for her, that morning her french press had broken no doubt from her continual heavy-handedness. She was in desperate need of some coffee before she attempted to work through her memos, and definitely before she tried to interact with any of her colleagues._

_It appeared, however, that it was just not going to be her day. There was no one behind any of the counters. Though she would consider herself an immeasurably practical person, the industrial coffee machine at the back of the room was far beyond her understanding. It looked as if it would have been more at home on a military vessel than an office canteen. There were more buttons and dials than Hermione could comprehend and she didn't want to start touching random ones in case she accidentally released an endless amount of steam or shot boiling water everywhere. _

_She had been debating turning around and hot-footing it to the Alley before her eight-thirty when a warm voice interrupted her mental calculations. _

"_Can I help, Hermione?"_

_She turned around quickly and was eye level with his chest. With him standing so close she had to crane her neck up to see Florean Fortescue's face. He was looking at her with an open expression, betraying a hint of amusement and then he raised an eyebrow. _

"_Yes," she stumbled out, before pointing to the coffee machine that had probably started life on the Bismarck. "Do you know how to operate that?"_

"_Of course," he replied easily and then brushed past her, getting closer than she had anticipated he would, with a lingering touch that made goosebumps erupt all over her arms. _

_Florean rolled up his sleeves and hit a few buttons and before long Hermione sagged into the familiar, endlessly comforting sound of percolating caffeine. _

_She thought about asking him a question, something about the war or his life outside of the few hours a week when she saw him but somehow that didn't seem right. Hermione didn't want to intrude. She knew how painful talking about the past could be, and yet she couldn't deny how intrigued she was by him. _

_Who had he been before? Who was he now? Why did she care?_

_In no time at all, Florean was back and handing her a no-doubt perfectly made coffee in a takeaway cup. Hermione jangled around in her pocket to grab the correct change and then left it in a neat pile on the counter. _

"_Thank you," she replied earnestly. She wanted to be light and breezy and wish him well with his day, but she couldn't shake the intensity she was feeling. Maybe because it was so quiet? Or because it was just the two of them? Whatever it was, it was making her movements feel jerky and stiff. _

"_You're welcome, Hermione," he replied. _

_He'd repeated her name, that was twice in under ten minutes, and she was sure he'd never used it before. Hermione would have remembered her name been rasped out like a caress; it wasn't as if she had so many erotic encounters that one would have just slipped her memory._

_Just before she was going to make an exit he leant forward, so close he was almost touching her and then reached down to push a lid onto her cup, his fingers biting into the plastic until it clicked and sealed. _

"_Have a lovely day," he murmured, and Hermione wasn't sure if it was a farewell or a command._

_Hermione garbled something virtual unintelligible in response before scampering out of the canteen. She felt his eyes on her until she disappeared from his view._

* * *

Hermione gulped down a sip of her drink once she had finished laying out her 'evidence' before them and looked at her friends despairingly.

Of the two of them, Tonks managed to rehinge her jaw first and then she promptly called over a waiter, gesturing at their leftover teacups and asking him to bring over the wine menu. Hermione began to calm by degrees when there was no laughter, or worse, hostility.

"You know," Tonks began, thankfully once the waiter had disappeared from earshot. "I wouldn't have guessed _Florean Fortescue_ in a million years."

Hermione shrugged, it wasn't exactly a surprise, she couldn't remember _anyone _saying they fancied him when they were growing up, not even as a guilty crush. She had certainly never thought of him in that way, she hadn't thought of him _at all_, but there was something that captivated her now.

"He sounds surprisingly… hot," Tonks added and eyed Hermione curiously.

"Well, he is obviously interested," Fleur declared as if the matter was wholly resolved. "But why the hesitation? Why doesn't he just ask you for a drink?"

"Maybe he's worried about the age gap?" Tonks theorised, and Hermione held back her own comment. It wasn't an angle she hadn't considered, though, in fairness, there were few things she hadn't thought of given how many times she had reviewed all of this in her mind.

"How old is he?" Fleur asked, and Hermione swallowed.

"Ah… sixty, sixty-five, something like that."

She was aware it was a _significant number_, bigger than she had ever considered. She remembered her mother being asked once if _she_ had an upper age limit, Jean Granger had responded how she always did to questions along those lines, 'How old is Harrison Ford?' Which was good for a chuckle. However, Hermione thought the realities of considering any kind of relationship with someone so much older were more complicated than that.

Hermione had guessed at Florean's age based on the information to hand. She hadn't looked it up, even though she would have had access to those sort of files at the Ministry. She wasn't sure if it was morality that was keeping her from doing it, or, perhaps, plausible deniability.

"So like…."

"Forty years older than me," Hermione concluded without preamble, and Tonk's eyes widened briefly before she went back to looking contemplative.

"Are you… _interested_?" Fleur asked, and Hermione fidgeted in her seat.

"I know _nothing _about him, the more I interact with him, the less sure I feel I know. But-"

"You're attracted to him?" she pressed, and Hermione didn't see the point in denying it. She could still feel the lingering thrill of having been stood so close to him in the canteen. It had been the weirdest sensation, safety and a lingering sense of anticipation.

"Yes," she affirmed and then instinctively she hid her face in her hands. _What was she thinking? He was an almost elderly ice cream man!_

"Stranger things have happened," Fleur said at last in that unaffected French way she had that always made Hermione feel dreadfully uncouth in comparison.

"What would the boys say?" she asked in a furious whisper and Tonks shrugged.

"Why do you need to tell them?"

That brought Hermione up short. She supposed if she had intended to _date_ Florean, as some part of long term relationship, then she would have to tell them eventually, but somehow she didn't think that was on the table, at least not yet.

"What… what now?" she asked, rather hopelessly and Fleur leaned forward to hold her hand.

"Nothing you're not comfortable with. Show your interest and then go with it for a while. Let him make his move."

"But what if….?"

"Hermione," Tonks said, looking at her softly. "No one is asking you to marry the guy, maybe just have you know… a bit of fun?"

Fleur waggled her eyebrows, and despite the pit in her stomach, Hermione laughed.

_A bit of fun_, she could do that, probably.

* * *

The following Friday Hermione was on leave, but by the Friday after that, she had reached a resolve. She had decided that she would throw caution to the wind, and show her hand, as it were. Fleur had teased that she was very proud of Hermione for considering _taking_ _a lover_, Hermione hadn't known how to respond to that. What she did know, was that if she had somehow read this wrong she was going to have to leave the Ministry, and possibly the country until enough time had passed that everyone would have forgotten about it. Tonks had quipped that it least with Florean being so much older he would likely pass away before he could tell to many people, Hermione had tried to see the funny side.

The canteen was blessedly quiet when Hermione finally entered, and there were only two people in line for ice-cream. Thankfully, no one joined behind her while she was waiting. When it was her turn, she leant against the wagon slightly, ostensibly pursuing the options but really she was hopeful that the cold air that puffed out from the tray would help cool the flush she could already feel chasing its way across her cheeks.

"Erm… I was wondering?" she began hesitantly, and Florean smiled at her.

"Neopolitan?"

Hermione tried to smile in reply, but her anxiety was making it difficult. "Yes," she said simply. Neopolitan sounded lovely, and if this all went _very wrong_ in a few moments, it might be her last chance to have some for a while.

Florean scooped the ice cream into a pot, and Hermione handed over her coins. Their weekly transaction, as it usually was, was over, but instead of walking away, she stood to the side, in the gap between wagons.

Florean watched her as she took a bite. Her nerves made her clumsy, and she missed her mouth. Hermione could feel a claggy patch of melted cream smudged at the side of her lips. Before she could react, or even curse herself for her awkwardness, Florean stepped back from behind the counter.

Wholly unexpectedly, he reached for her face. Hermione was as frozen as the dessert in her bowl as his thumb jutted under her chin to hold her still as he swiped two sure fingers against the side of her lips, gathering the ice cream she had left there in one deft motion.

"You missed a bit," he said gruffly and then, just as Hermione was getting her breath back from the shock of feeling his skin on hers, Florean pulled back his fingers, smeared pink and green, and pushed them inside his own mouth, shutting his eyes as he licked them clean.

Hermione's hand shot out to grip the side of the wagon to steady herself as she kept a biting grip on the bowl in her other hand.

"Nice?" Hermione said eventually, her voice a breathy whimper.

He hummed. "My apologies, I… I felt the most overwhelming urge to have a taste. I fear my control may be slipping today."

Hermione shivered and took a single step towards him. There wasn't anyone around, but she didn't want to be overheard. "Do you ever… want to indulge… more?"

She bit her lip and tried her best to meet his eyes. Hermione wasn't a natural flirt, and though she imagined her words _could_ be taken as coy she was using them more like a life raft, so she could try and pretend she had more innocent intentions should things all go wrong.

"In certain circumstances," he said, staring down at her intently. "I find that it is _all_ I can think about."

"That must be... "

"It's agony," he replied with a dark purr that Hermione felt all the way down to her shoes. There was no way even she could get together enough doubt to deny that he was interested now. The way he looked at her alone was enough to make the air feel warmer. She was going to do it. She was going to tell him she was… whatever it was she was… but then, two witches Hermione recognised from the accounts department appeared, tittering about some new system and cooing over the new ice cream flavours.

"I…" he began, looking between her no doubt bright red face and his customers but then they started asking questions, and he walked away.

She took a moment to breathe and pull herself together, then, on shaky legs, Hermione made it back up to her office where she closed the door and collapsed against it. Her heart was beating out of her chest, and she felt hot all over. There was nothing else for it. She would never get through the day without doing something drastic, something wholly unheard of for her.

In short order, she silenced the room, put her ice cream up on a high unit and shoved her hand under her skirt and into her knickers. She brought herself to the edge time and time again until eventually, she let herself go, climaxing just as she imagined Florean's fingers disappearing into his mouth.

* * *

Hermione was waiting outside the ice cream shop, staring through the blackened window from the quiet of Diagon Alley. It was one of those places that looked wrong at night. Without the brightness of the inside illuminating out of the windows and the jarring neon signs, the shopfront actually looked a little… sinister. Maybe that was just her mind playing tricks on her? Perhaps she had been dreaming of pastels so long everything else seemed wrong.

A dog barked from somewhere down the lane, and Hermione jumped and then collected herself.

_What on earth was she doing there?_

Two days after their interrupted conversation, she got an owl. It was from Florean, though he had never signed it. He said that if she wanted to continue _their chat_, she could meet him on Friday evening.

Hermione had never been so indecisive in her life, and yet, no matter how many times she tried to box it all up in her mind and forget about it, she faltered. She'd avoided the canteen that day, not sure whether or not she wanted to see him again, and yet, there she was.

Hermione approached the door and pressed a hand against it. It was open like he said it would be. She walked across the dimly lit storefront staring at everything. It reminded her of a dentists office while it was like this. Bright white and sterile with stainless steel hanging from the walls.

Hermione opened the back door and walked into what appeared to be a small sitting room. Florean was there. Despite knowing she was moving into the home behind the shop, Hermione hadn't been prepared to see him so soon. Her fingers lingered on the door handle as she closed it behind herself and then she put her arms behind her back, one hand resting into the crook of her elbow on the other arm. She knew it exposed how unsure she was, but she couldn't help it.

Florean was sat in a comfortable, traditional style armchair with a book across his lap. He didn't look wholly surprised to see her, but then, he must have known _someone_ was on the premises from his wards.

"I wasn't sure you were coming," he said, and for the first time since this crazy interaction began, she thought he sounded exposed. Somehow that brief flicker of vulnerability made her feel better.

"Neither was I," she admitted honestly.

"You weren't in the canteen at lunchtime. I took that to be your answer."

Hermione nodded, distracted by how much nicer it was in there than the shop. It was… cosy she thought and inviting.

"I wasn't sure what I wanted."

"You do now?" he pressed, and Hermione took a step further into the room. She felt more at ease now. She was regaining her equilibrium. Something about him being sat down made him seem less intimidating than he had before.

Hermione hummed. "Do you proposition _all_ of your customers?"

He relaxed further into the chair and rubbed his chin. "Was that what I did?"

Hermione placed a hand on her hip; it was a stance all that knew her would have recognised. "You know what you were doing."

"Do you proposition everyone you buy ice cream from?" he countered with a smirk.

Hermione bit her lip. "I buy only ice cream from you."

Florean smiled at that. It deepened the lines around his eyes and mouth. It should have been a reminder of how much older he was, but instead, Hermione found the softening of his features strangely comforting. Laughter lines, she had heard them called, a sign of a life well-lived. She hoped she had some of those herself when she was old enough. It was better than the inevitable puckering of her brow she knew she would never avoid. She frowned _far _too much.

"Do you want a drink?" he offered cordially and gestured to a drinks cabinet on the other side of the room. Hermione suddenly had the urge to laugh, but she managed to suppress it.

"No, thank you," she answered primly, and he nodded once in acknowledgement.

Hermione thought it was best to keep a clear head. It was hard enough to keep herself together without adding alcohol into the mix. She had never been in a situation like this before. Where she had agreed to meet up with a man _knowing_ she was going to have sex. It had never been expressly stated, but his flirting had been of a particular kind, and he'd never followed it up with an invitation to somewhere conventional or public. He'd asked her to come to his home, and she wasn't naive enough to not appreciate what that meant.

No date, no build-up, no nothing.

"What do you want Hermione?" he asked in a deep rumble of a voice. He had put his drink down on the table next to him and was watching her openly. He seemed almost unnatural still, a predator waiting to strike or, more likely, a man not daring to take a breath, not until he knew that this was _definitely_ going where he wanted it to.

Hermione bit her lip. She was afraid to say what she wanted, to spell it out in specific, unflinching terms. It reminded her of that story she had read about a girl who had gone to get her vagina pierced but when asked, was too shy to say she would like it done for pleasure - even though she'd already been stripped from the waist down, sat up on a table. It was a good reminder - the horse had already bolted, no use shutting the stable door now.

Hermione wetted her lips and shifted her weight onto her other foot, channelling some of her anxiety by fidgetting on the spot.

"You mentioned," she replied, psyching herself up, "wanting a taste?"

Florean sucked in a deep breath the sounded thunderous in the small room, and his hands tightened on the arms of the chair.

"You're sure?" he asked in a biting tone. Hermione nodded.

"Please _say_ it," he insisted, and Hermione took another step forward, noticing the bulge in his trousers that his open posture did nothing to hide.

"I would like you to… indulge."

There was a heartbeat of silence, then two and then Florean got up from the chair and took two steps. It was enough for him to cover all of the distance between them and ghost his large hands over her shoulders and arms.

"Will you please take your clothes off?" It was a politely worded command if she had heard one, and it was exactly what she needed. His surety was enough to stop her from derailing into a panic.

Hermione stilled but then shimmied a step back so she could start by sliding her skirt off. She was a Gryffindor for heaven sake. She could do this!

What she managed would probably not have been considered erotic by anyone's standards, she was largely unpractised in what you might call seduction, and her movements were too considered to be spontaneous. Yet, Florean didn't appear to have any complaints. He stood by her like an ever-watchful century, never saying anything however his hands fisted by his sides and his brow pinched as if in deep concentration.

He stopped her progress when she was clad only in her knickers, and as soon as she paused, some of her anxiety returned. Nothing brought about self-doubt as swiftly as the realisation that you were standing in the back of an ice cream shop with your boobs out.

Florean leant down and kissed her without raising his hands. His approach was softer than she had expected and right on the lips. He didn't try to deepen the kiss, and after only a moment, he pulled away. Then, before she could come back down to earth, he placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her towards the chair he had been sat in when she arrived.

Florean placed his hands on her shoulders and then glided them down the curves of her body until he pushed his fingers under the fabric still on her hips. Once her knickers were stretched over his knuckles on either side, he slowly fell to his knees, dragging the black lace with him before helping her take it off her feet.

"Sit in the chair," he said softly, and Hermione hastened to comply. Once her bum hit the seat, he scooted her forward, closer and closer until her bum was right on the edge of the cushion.

"Thank you," he said with an intensity that made Hermione's insides tingly, then he moved his hands down her body again, this time coming to a stop on her knees. Never looking away from her face, he pushed his fingers into the inside of her knees and then gently but firmly separated her legs, pulling her wide.

Hermione couldn't look at him while she was so exposed, and so she focused on the top of his head instead. From this angle, she could see that his greying hair was receding a little on top. One of the benefits of his height she supposed was that not many people could see…

Her thoughts derailed as he pushed his face into her centre. Instinctively, Hermione gripped the arms of the chair, a mirror of his pose earlier as she tried to recover.

There was a pause, silence, almost longer than she could bear. Hermione was desperate to move her legs, part of her wanting to clamp them shut the other telling her to hold them out further.

Florean looked up at her just once and then pushed his head back down again. Hermione didn't just see stars; it wasn't pinpricks of light behind her eyes, but full-blown fireworks. This wasn't her first experience with this kind of act, but it was _worlds_ away from any time it had been done before. In her experience, boys had always done so with a subtle reluctance that had eventually equated to a lacklustre performance.

Florean licked and sucked and attacked her clit as if she were giving out prizes at the end. As if this wasn't the precursor to something else, but something that would be enough on its own.

In no time, Hermione felt flush. It built from her temples and the tips of her fingers until it seemed to zip wire all over her body, stealing her breath as it set her veins on fire. She arched off the chair, clenched her toes and threw her head back to try to and absorb the sensation.

It wasn't enough.

When she tried to move again, Florean's arm jerked from its place holding her leg to lay against her middle, pinning her in place as effectively as an iron bar. The fabric of his shirt felt odd against her bare lap, and it brought home to her what they must have looked like. Her sitting naked, perched in his chair and probably destroying the leather, while he was before her, boxing her in while fully dressed.

Before Hermione could articulate that she needed more, Florean's fingers connected with her flesh, and after a frantic dance of begging and relief, Hermione came with an almost pained whimper.

When she was back to being fully aware of herself, she pulled her legs back together, and towards her tummy. She was so spent she felt like jelly, she was in the right place she supposed, and the thought made her giggle. Florean lifted an eyebrow in response to her outburst, but he didn't ask her to explain.

"I have wanted to do that for _months_," he admitted, panting as he laid his cheek against her inner thigh.

"That was…"

"Perfect," he interjected passionately. "It was fucking perfect."

Their eyes met, and Hermione felt more naked than she had before, the reality of the situation was seeping into her mind, and she didn't know what to do now. There hadn't been any declaration of feelings or even romantic intentions. They had barely even kissed. The quiet ticked on and Hermione stood on deer-like legs.

"I should… I should go," she said, sounding more decisive than she felt, but before she could get anywhere, Florean reached forward and grabbed her wrist.

Hermione turned on her heel to look at him, her standing naked and flushed and him on his knees, a supplicant at her feet.

"Hermione," he said, and then he reached up to settle the tufts of his hair she must have disturbed when his head was between her legs. She stared down at him, and he faltered before getting to his feet and looming over her once more.

His shadow fell over her like a robe, and she forgot she was naked and a bit of a mess, all that mattered was his gaze.

"When I saw you, for the first time in the Ministry," he shut his eyes and shook his head. "It was like, for those few moments you were there, nothing else mattered. I couldn't remember anything that had happened before. I couldn't remember any pain. I wanted… I _wanted _you, more than I have ever wanted anything before."

Hermione smiled and reached up to pet his cheek, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. "Was it everything you imagined it would be?"

Florean smiled ruefully and caught one of her hands in his. "The trouble with indulgences, Hermione is that you are very rarely satisfied with a small amount. When it's _so much_ better than you could have ever anticipated, you inevitably want more."

Hermione considered him standing before her, rumbled and raw. She wanted to say that she wasn't sure that _this thing_, whatever it was, was for her. She wasn't a causal sex person, and yet, that had been _amazing_, and she couldn't deny she wanted to know more of him, more of his body, more of his mind.

_Where was the harm?_

"I have one condition," she chirped, trying to interject some much-needed levity in the room.

"What's that?"

"Can I have some raspberry ripple? After, I mean?"

Hermione bit her lip as he smiled, and his eyes darkened. "Hermione, you can have _whatever _you want."


	18. Criminal Minds

_A/N: Hello! Why? Because when in doubt, Sirimione :) Bit of a different thing from me, a Muggle AU, no Voldemort, no death eaters. Next on the docket is Harry x Pansy._

* * *

**Criminal Minds**

Prompt: Sirius + Hermione criminal minds  
for anon

* * *

Hermione sat on the 'guest' chair in the cramped interview room and tried not to let her discomfort show. _But really, did they search the world over to find the worst chair in existence? Or was it just an unfortunate happenstance?_ How had they managed to find a chair that was both too soft _and_ too firm? As well as being too low for even a person of her stature to be comfortable. In any case, it would have been _beyond _unprofessional of her to comment. The man she was meeting wasn't even afforded the 'luxury' of a chair in his room, uncomfortable or not. The least she could do was hold it together for the hour she had to bear with it.

Hermione arranged her detailed notes, in code, of course, around the table and fiddled with the edge of her soft blue blouse. It didn't matter how many times she did this, or how many qualifications she got, the first meeting with a detainee always made her nervous.

She clicked her neck from side to side and opened a file, absently running her fingers over the HM Government branded embossing that was lining the folio.

Hermione started working for the Department of Corrections after collecting her first degree and had been slowly working her way up the ranks ever since. Six months ago, she had been promoted to Leading Psychologist for the department, a goal she had been working towards for over two years. As well as a cheap bottle of champagne, a paltry raise and a dusty kiss on the cheek she had been given the _real _perk of her new job... a research grant with broad scope terms that gave her almost carte blanche on how she could spend it. Hermione had spent the last five years working on her thesis; _The Reformation of Criminal Deviancy_, and now she finally had the money, and the workplace afforded clearance to put all of her plans into action.

The final stage required her to assess seven individuals currently serving life sentences in maximum-security prisons. Hermione firmly believed that these places were doing nothing to help reform these inmates; in fact, in many cases, incarceration and poor treatment were making them worse. If she could work with these people and make changes that would show behavioural improvements, she would have the substantive evidence she had been seeking in her quest to reform the prison system from the inside out.

Subject #4 was Sirius Black, convicted twelve years before for the murder of three of his best friends and twelve innocent bystanders after he - and his group of friends - got involved with a notorious drug cartel.

After a short wait, Hermione heard a familiar jangling shuffle, and she stood from behind the table to greet Mr Black when he entered.

Her low heels clicked noisily on the cheaply tiled floor, and Hermione did her best not to grimace. So much ground could be made or lost in the first seven seconds of meeting someone new, and the importance was heightened when working with inmates. In prison, people often had to make quick judgement calls on how to act and who to trust in the face of near-constant threats. A lousy introduction could signal the end of the project.

Hermione looked down at herself to make sure she was still in relatively good order and pushed her hair back off her shoulders.

She had read every piece of intelligence she could find on Mr Black, which had not been easy as his file had been heavily redacted. As such clues as to where to go next with her research had been thin on the ground. What she had cobbled together was less than she had for any other subject of the study, but it was enough. It had to be.

Sirius Black had been raised with money, though he had shaken off any family connexions around the time of his sixteenth birthday. He had been a good student, though his files were sealed, so Hermione had only been able to access his final transcript. He'd had all the makings for an exemplary career in front of him. So what had happened? There was no paper trail to let her know. For the rest, she would need to be informed by him and his level of receptiveness to her endeavours.

The heavy door opened loudly, and Hermione straightened as Sirius Black walked even, flanked by bored-looking guards. Even in her heels, he was much taller than her though he was slight as well, no doubt made more so by his time in this place.

He didn't avoid her eye contact, which was good as first indications went, and Hermione thought he seemed curious. He regarded her standing away from the desk with apparent bemusement, and Hermione was relieved he didn't show any of the visible physical signs of long term incarceration that she had come to expect. However, he did have a nasty looking black eye. Surreptitiously she scanned the knuckles of both the guards, but there was nothing there that would allow her to point the finger. It didn't abate her anger.

She was going to reform this corrupt system and drag its medieval ideals screaming into the twenty-first century if it was the last thing she ever did.

"Mr Black," she greeted formally and then took her seat. The guard pushed him down into a chair opposite, and Hermione waited for him to finish making a production of leaving before she spoke again.

"You know why I am here?" she asked, and he nodded.

He opened his cracked lips as if intending to reply, but the only sound that ground out was a rasp that had been torn from the back of his throat.

Hermione quickly grabbed one of the glasses she had requested and filled it to the brim. Sirius eyed it warily but apparently, thirst won out, and after a couple of seconds, he had the glass pressed to his lips as he gulped down the liquid in quick mouthfuls. Hermione refiled the glass twice before he was sated.

"Inter… view," he said eventually with the air of someone who was unpractised with speech.

The fingers of Hermione's left hand gripped into her thigh until she could almost feel the flesh give way under her trousers. She picked up a pen in her other hand and turned pages in her notebook until she found space.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr Black. Do you think you could talk me through the events that led you to be here today?"

He put the glass back down on the table and Hermione noticed his tattooed fingers. She'd seen a few pictures of him before he was incarcerated; he certainly hadn't had them then. While it wasn't unusual for prisoners to 'get ink' these were more extensive than she was used to and they had been applied with a great deal of skill.

"I thought... you were... a shrink?" he stuttered out, and Hermione smiled at the moniker even though it usually made her wince.

"I am," she affirmed with a nod.

His eyes narrowed. "Then _why_... are you talking... like a lawyer?"

"Am I? Well if I am, it's very insulting of you to point it out."

Hermione almost slammed her fingers over her lips. She hadn't _meant_ to say that. That incredibly glib sentence could have been seen as _personal_ and certainly not reflective of her usual professional, squeaky clean approach.

Discomforted, she quickly ruffled through her papers in an attempt to recover herself _and the interview _and then, when she looked up again, Mr Black was watching her more intensely than before. Hermione noticed a glimmer of something in his eyes that she faintly thought might have been amusement, but she refused to analyse it further. Which was ridiculous, as studying the man in front of her was literally what she was there to do.

They were the most arresting colour, his irises. Hermione had seen blue-grey eyes before, but never anything that looked quite like his. It was difficult to make out the rest of his true appearance, his face was all harsh lines that didn't look like they suited him and his hair was overgrown and limp and obscured most of his other features. Yet there was something.

Hermione imagined if she looked at him in the right light for long enough her brain would have been able to connect all the dots and fill in an image of what Sirius Black would look like now if he weren't in here.

But he was here, in prison.

Mr Black leant forward in his chair, and Hermione heard the clinking of the chains at his feet.

"This another… assessment?" he asked, devoid of emotion as he took another deep swallow of water. "You show me… inkblots, I tell you they look like… blood and death."

"That's not really why I'm here," Hermione explained lightly and then she picked up her notepad again. "Will you tell me about yourself?"

* * *

Hermione found herself on Harry's doorstep the next day, practically itching to tell him about her latest interview. While it was _strictly_ against protocol to do so, Hermione excused herself on the grounds that Harry was also a high ranking civil servant, in a twinned department, and he had helped select some of her subjects. His job at the Ministry of Defence made him aware of cases Hermione would never have heard of otherwise.

Harry was remarkably quiet when she arrived, and Hermione was surprised to find that Ginny and the kids were nowhere in sight. It was almost unnatural to enter the Potter homestead and not be nearly deafened by a stampede of children that would attack you like a tidal wave.

"Park," Harry said simply in response to her enquiring eyes and Hermione nodded, though she couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

She had been expecting Ginny to look at her with a familiar eye-roll, laughing at Hermione and Harry's inability to stop themselves from talking 'shop' even at the weekend. Because of the nature of who they were, their life experiences and their jobs, they often took opposing views on the issues around criminality and the justice system. Their friends had referred to their workplace dynamic as 'he locks 'em up, and she gets 'em out', and though it was a severe reduction of their opposing roles and views, the definition had stuck.

Hermione followed Harry into the kitchen and gratefully accepted a cup of tea before launching into a typically scathing attack of the prison she visited and its _so-called_ guards. She couldn't have guessed at the last time the place had been thoroughly cleaned. The communal areas and entrance were terrible, but she imagined the cells must have been genuinely horrid. She hadn't been able to sneak a peek in the dining hall, but Hermione had been reliably informed by a trusted source that the food was regularly not meeting the nutritional standards it should.

As Hermione worked herself up, Harry failed to rise to be the bait and didn't make any of his usual rejoinders. Hermione was beginning to think had stopped listening when he suddenly put down his drink.

"What of him, the guy you met?"

Hermione took another sip of tea and wracked her brain over how to answer. "He wasn't exactly what I expected," she said finally. It was the understatement of the century, but it was at least sincere. She swung her legs against the stool she was perched on and thought of Sirius Black. He had sat up and been fully attentive throughout their entire conversation.

"He was calm," she continued, "and courteous for the most part, though I never got the impression he was using that as a tool to lure me in. Old fashioned manners I would have said if I'd met him in any other circumstance. He never spoke too long before pausing to ask me something about myself."

"He recounted his life story almost as if he was remembering it for the first time. I got the impression he hadn't thought of some of those moments for a long while. He didn't cover his case, not as such, he seemed to gloss right over a year or so in time and then picked up again from when he got to prison."

Harry drummed his fingers against the breakfast bar hard enough to cause ripples in what was left of his water.

"When are you seeing him again?"

"Next month," Hermione replied thoughtfully. She always scheduled the meetings with a gap to allow her some reflection time. For some reason, she wished she hadn't bothered for Mr Black.

"Harry, is evening okay? You don't seem yourself."

Harry fidgeted, pushing his chair back and then pulling on the front of his hair before he got up and reached for the cupboard above the fridge, where they kept the booze.

"Harry?"

He ignored her. Harry grabbed a bottle of Scotch, a good one if Hermione was any judge, and brought it back to the table where he slowly poured two very full glasses. It was ten in the morning. Hermione said nothing as Harry nudged one into her waiting fingers and then retook his seat.

"Harry?" she pressed again as she stared down at her beverage. Harry knocked back half his measure and then dropped it back on the table with a short gasp as if he wasn't prepared for the alcohol to hit his throat.

"He's my Godfather," Harry said at last, and Hermione nearly dropped the heavy glass still warming between her fingers. She put the cut crystal down, back onto the safety of the table as her mind shuddered to a halt.

"What?" she whispered.

Harry shook his head in disbelief. "I expected you to come to me sooner," he said before taking another long drink. "I thought you would have figured it out before you even got there."

Hermione stared at him. For the first time in their long friendship, she felt rage just looking at him. She had been angry at him before, of course, but never like this.

"Do you think that absolves you?" she spat, taking her own sip and silently wishing that the burning liquid would somehow cool the fire inside of her. "Do you think '_thinking I would figure it all out_' makes it okay for you to have kept quiet about something like this?"

Hermione dropped her head into her hands and massaged her temples with her fingers. "_You_ suggested that case Harry, and you never let on a thing. We don't do that, never to each other. Both of our careers could be on the line over this."

"I'm sorry," Harry replied earnestly. He started pulling at his hair again, and Hermione was startled to realise he looked near tears.

"I wasn't thinking straight," he explained. "I found out about him at the end of last year. I had no idea he even existed before that. All my life I'd thought there was no one apart from my aunt and uncle… and Dudley, I suppose. Not really anyone to call a family. Then you showed up the day after I knew about him, about _Sirius Black_. You were beaming. You said you had your promotion, and you needed my help, and it felt like fate."

"You don't believe in that shit, Harry," Hermione sneered, and Harry laughed. There was no joy in the sound.

"No, I don't, and yet here we are."

"How did you even find out?" Hermione questioned, rubbing her fingers over the carvings in the glass. "The names and most of the pertinent details were removed from the records."

"Kingsley showed me after my twenty-fifth birthday," Harry replied, not meeting her eyes. "He, Kingsley I mean, he knew them all."

_The Prime Minister knew? The fucking Prime Minister? Hermione was sure she was going to have a heart attack. There was no way she would be able to include him in the study now; the conflict of interest was off the charts. She would have to declare the error at work and see what could be done about putting everything straight. If she were lucky, she wouldn't have to start all over again._

"Hang on," she said, interrupting Harry as he continued his bleak tale of Shacklebolt taking him down to the official records room.

"_All_? What do you mean? Oh my god... your parents. They were the friends that he..."

_Sirius Black was convicted of murdering three of his best friends… _

"Murdered?" Hary interjected. "Yeah, that's them."

They were quiet for a time. Hermione cradled her drink in her hands and laid her head back, shutting her eyes. She'd known Harry for a long time, since the first day of school in fact. She thought she'd known about his parents for almost as long. Harry was not usually one for keeping secrets, not from people he loved in any case. James and Lily Potter had been the darlings of MI6 back in their day, and both had been tipped for greatness. But they'd been cut down in their prime, apparently by the man she had spent yesterday interviewing.

"Are you still going to go back?" Harry said eventually, and Hermione stiffened.

"How can you ask that of me? How can I, now I know?"

Harry pulled at his collar and swivelled in his seat until he reached out to pour himself another glass. "I just _need_ to know what happened, okay? He's the only one that might know something. There was never even a formal trial!"

Hermione had gathered as much from her conversation with Sirius, or rather the gaps in his story. It had seemed so odd at the time, but now the pieces were beginning to fall into place. James and Lily Potter had been government workers just like them. The words _cover-up_ appeared in front of her eyes, and Hermione felt sick.

She had dreams, plans she'd had since she was little more than a child. People were relying on her. But 'people' was an abstract term, far more intangible than the man she looked on as family sitting across the table.

"Okay," she said eventually, but she already half hated herself for it.

Hermione knew she needed to tell her superiors about this, to come clean and start putting this mess right before it got out of hand. But then, she would be denied visitation, and for some reason, that was unacceptable.

"Thank you," Harry said softly, and Hermione couldn't help herself, she cried.

* * *

On her second allotted visit to see Sirius Black, Hermione dressed more casually. She'd gone with a pantsuit the first time, hoping it made her look older and more professional. This time almost all pretence was out the window. Not that _he_ knew that but still. She wore dark jeans and a comfortable top and tried not to let her nerves show. It was easier said than done. Hermione kept imagining that at any moment, the guards would turn around and arrest her, before throwing her into one of the cells. It was hyperbolic, but the idea that she could be detained, stripped of her role and brought in front of an enquiry was not.

Hermione drew upon all of her experience to date and tried to appear _normal _as she set herself up for their second interview. She'd brought even more paperwork with her this time, and she had a prompt list tucked under a folio she had closest to her right arm.

He seemed more prepared to see her when he finally walked in, though he didn't look much better than he had before. Which, Hermione supposed wasn't really within his control.

"Hello again," he greeted her, and Hermione clenched her fingers into a first behind her back.

"Hello," she returned with a slight tremor she couldn't mask. "Thank you for agreeing to continue."

Mr Black scoffed and sat down, and Hermione followed. She fiddled with her pen for a moment before she steepled her fingers together leant forward.

_Harry's parents, he __**murdered**_ _Harry's parents_, her brain kept murmuring, and she looked down at her partially hidden sheet to get her mind back on the task in hand. In an hour, she could leave, she would have fulfilled her purpose, and she would never have to see him again.

"Mr Black," she began eventually and then decisively took the cap off her pen. "I had hoped that today we could discuss your case in detail. Would that be acceptable?"

Sirius eyed her intently, and Hermione did her best to meet his gaze. She couldn't let on that she knew any more than she should.

"Do you want the approved version or my account, my _honest_ account?" he asked in a bored way before leaning back in his chair. Hermione considered his incredibly relaxed demeanour. It was mostly for show, but it was a reasonable effort. He was good at masking his feelings. Better than her in any case.

"I would like to hear your version if you are happy to share it."

Sirius Black told his story, or at least what he knew of it. It was riddled with holes that could have been put down to the time between events, his incarceration or even him not knowing certain things but the more he spoke, the more a plausible explanation for all of this began to build in her mind. One thing was for sure, his recollections did not match up with the government reasons for his arrest, and the crater that had been forming in Hermione's stomach tripled in size.

Hermione worried her bottom lip as she finished the last letter of her notes and she set down her pen and stretched her fingers. It was a technique she had used in interviews before. It gave people the impression she was 'off the record'. Of course, nothing was ever really unofficial, though, at that moment, her questions had moved far away from her original purpose.

"Did you ever give a statement at the time?" she queried, and he looked at the table surface refusing to meet her gaze.

"I signed a piece of paper," he replied without emotion. "But I didn't read it."

"Why?" She couldn't help but sound exasperated. She knew enough of him to see he was far too intelligent to have allowed something like that to happen.

Sirius' fingers gripped the edge of the table, and Hermione saw his knuckles turn white. "By then, there didn't seem to be much point."

Hermione nodded. There was nothing else she could say. "Thank you, Mr Black," she said mournfully. This was the end, in more ways than one.

Sirius tilted his head to the side as he regarded her and Hermione felt like she was being examined under a microscope.

"_Sirius_, please," he insisted. "It's been… It's been such a long time since someone called me that."

Hermione bit the side of her lip. There were no rules against it per se; in fact, a lot of modern psychology encouraged a more personal address. However, Hermione had never been keen. In her particular circumstances keeping to official addresses had reinforced boundaries that were important to both parties.

"Okay," Hermione agreed even as he mind screamed that it was a mistake. "Sirius," she said, testing out the unfamiliar name on her tongue. He smiled at her then, at least, she thought he did. It wasn't much, a simple and oh so brief quirk of his lips, but she was sure she had seen it.

It was time to go.

Hermione began pulling together the loose pages on the table and organising her stationary.

"You're really beautiful, you know?"

His voice made her eyes flick up to his, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She wanted to look away from him, but she couldn't.

"Too beautiful for a place like this."

Hermione had been working around incarcerated people for a long time, and it wasn't the first time someone had commented on her physical appearance. It was hard to take it seriously, most of them hadn't seen anyone but other inmates and guards for the longest possible time.

It felt genuine though. Hermione debated telling him about Harry, about everything, but she couldn't. Hope might just eat away and destroy whatever it was that was keeping him going.

"Will you be coming again?" he asked, and Hermione blinked slowly before shutting a file on the table.

"I'm afraid two meetings is all my clearance allows," she said apologetically, and Sirius nodded.

"A pity," he said eventually.

Despite the considerable weight on her shoulders, Hermione stood and picked up her bag. Sirius didn't look up at her though his body arched in her direction.

"I wish you well Sirius, please look after yourself," she managed before she pressed a button on the side of the wall and walked towards the door.

He didn't reply.

-/-/-/-

Hermione stood in the lurching lift surrounded by guards and haunted by grey eyes. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was leaving Sirius behind.

The _official r_ecord of his crimes sat heavily in her bag as she left the building and though her throat constricted and her eyes burnt, she made it back to her flat before she lost control.

As soon as her front door was safely closed, Hermione slumped and sat in a heap on the floor.

When she got up, two hours later, she had decided what she had to do.

* * *

Hermione waited almost five days to talk to Harry, until their regular weekly breakfast meeting at a coffee shop a few roads out of the _nice part_ of Westminster. Government workers, they may have been, snobs they were not. Maybe it was unreasonably paranoid for her to wait. Still, if this period in her life was ever put under scrutiny, Hermione didn't want anyone to discover any further _ad hoc_ meetings between herself and Harry. No smoke without fire and all that rot. The routine of their breakfast arrangement gave them both plausible deniability, and if the dominoes fell where Hermione suspected they would, they would both need it soon.

Ron, their other closest friend from school, usually joined them, but he was at a conference in Frankfurt. Hermione could have done with his blunt, get shit done attitude right about then, but it was probably for the best. No one could try and incriminate him if he wasn't even around when it was all kicking off.

The greasy spoon had terrible service but good food, and it reminded them both of a simpler time when they had thought they were going to _change the world_ before they knew what that meant.

Harry was already there when Hermione arrived, and when she, and her typically overstuffed work bag, sat down heavily in front of him, he offered her an anxious smile. If the widening of Harry's eyes were any indication, it was highly likely she looked just as shit as she felt.

"Hermione, I'm sorry," he blurted. "I should _never_ have asked you to do this."

_No, you shouldn't. But we both know I was going to do it whether you wanted me to or not. _

"Harry," she tried to interject, feeling as old as the hills, but Harry wasn't listening.

"It was grossly unfair and..."

'Harry," Hermione said again, harder this time before pressing her fingers onto the mug of tea he had kindly bought for her. The scalding porcelain felt like it was hot enough to remove her fingerprints, which, given her current predicament, wouldn't have been the worst thing.

_I could start again, another country, another government_, Hermione thought to herself. _Until I discover all the crap their keeping under the carpet and then I'm back to square one!_

"I… saw him again, Sirius Black…" she rambled. "Why am I saying that? You know who I mean."

Hermione closed her eyes and counted to ten while she attempted to regulate her breathing. Harry, to his eternal credit, gave her the space to recover herself. It was hardly the first time he had seen her on the verge of a panic attack. They had sat for GCSEs and A-Levels together after all.

"I don't think he did it," she admitted at last. It was the first time Hermione had said the words out loud, and despite her conviction, she almost wanted to pull them back into her mouth and forget the whole thing. _Almost_.

A crash rang out from behind the counter. Justine had dropped another plate, but it didn't drown out the endless reverberating ripples from her declaration.

"What?" Harry whispered. He shook his head as if that would somehow clear everything up and tie it into a neat bow.

Hermione didn't know how to explain herself. She had nothing in the way of proof to back her claims, she just _knew_. It was an instinct honed by her experience. She didn't believe that Sirius Black was capable of committing the crimes he had been imprisoned for. Murder? Yes, he definitely had the capacity for it, but the murder of his closest friends? Hermione didn't believe so.

They were a lot alike in a strange way, they both hung tight to this idea of justice which was disgustingly ironic given he was in prison.

"I don't…" Hermione muttered. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and then broke off a piece of croissant. "I _think_ he's innocent."

"How sure are you?"

Hermione swallowed. "How sure do you think I would have to be before I braved telling you this? I know how this impacts you personally, Harry. I'm as sure as I can be."

Harry slumped in his seat. His eyes scanned the room as if the answer to all their problems might be hanging on the wall.

"What the fuck do we do now?" he said at last. Hermione shrugged and then propped her head upon her hand.

"I have no fucking idea."

* * *

Hermione looked down at the hastily written instructions and checked the last three directions on the list before looking up at the house in front of her. _Remote_ didn't even begin to describe this place. Hermione had been walking for the better part of an hour after she had got off her _third bus_, and she'd only seen five other homes in that time. The last one must have been miles before.

Though it was surrounded by what looked like vacant farmland, the small cottage itself was teeming with life. The land was ringed off by a low fence, and there seemed to be a well maintained front and back garden. It made Hermione feel slightly better. _Keen gardeners were never usually violent, were they?_

Hermione folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into her back pocket before giving herself a momentary talking to and then heading to the front door.

It took three attempts at knocking before the door opened, and even then it was just a slither. Inside the house looked dark in comparison to the bright sunshine outside, and Hermione struggled to make out the face of the person hiding behind the door.

"Read the sign," he gruffed, "no cold callers."

There was indeed a sign next to the door; however, the 'GO AWAY' scrawled in big letters wasn't exactly descriptive, though it did have an impact.

Hermione tried to make herself look kind and approachable, which was a hard thing to do outside of her usual sessions. "I understand your hesitation, Mr Lupin," she said in her politest voice. "But I'm not a cold caller, nor am I selling anything. I'd just like to ask a few…"

"No surveys," he interjected and then moved as if he would retreat into the house and close the door. Acting on instinct, Hermione lurched forward and pushed her shoe in the way. She hoped he didn't decide to slam it anyway, as she was in no way strong enough to hold him off.

"Actually, I'm here to talk about Sirius Black."

There was silence, and it was so quiet out here in the middle of nowhere that Hermione could hear the birds that were squawking from the nearby hedgerows. She waited him out. She had already invaded his personal space as much as she was willing to. The next move would have to be his.

"You better come in," he replied with a sigh, and the door opened widely.

-/-/-/-

The inside of the cottage was much like the man who lived there, tidy and well put together though a little careworn in places, a bit out of date in others and not really in a fashionable, vintage kind of way.

"Who are you?" he asked as he led them through a cramped corridor and into a small sitting room. He gestured for her to take a seat, and Hermione dutifully did so. She didn't so much as blink when he chose to remain standing.

"My name is Hermione Granger, and I work for the Department of Corrections as a Psychologist."

His eyebrows rose to the top of his head. "And just what is a prominent Psychologist doing in my sitting room, uninvited."

He was blunt, she would give him that, but Hermione was hardly perturbed. It might even help them move this along quicker.

"As part of a recent study, I was given clearance to visit a number of inmates currently serving sentences all over the country. I have recently met with Sirius Black, the stu…"

"You've seen him!" Mr Lupin interjected, almost leaping forward with wild eyes.

"I… I have," Hermione confirmed nodding. "Twice, the last time was a few weeks ago."

"How… how is he?"

Mr Lupin sounded so sad Hermione wanted to reach out and pet his shoulder, but she held herself back. A person living like this, a virtual hermit, was hardly likely to be the recipient of a lot of human interaction. She would do well to let him lead.

"He was," Hermione began, thinking back to Sirius' penetrating eyes and fake relaxed demeanour. "I don't know what to say to best reassure you. I can't guess at how he compares to… before, but he seemed okay, as okay as you can be in that situation in any case."

Mr Lupin nodded and then dropped into the seat opposite her and put his head in his hands. Hermione allowed him to have a moment. "Shall I make us some tea?" she offered hopefully, and he managed to murmur his assent. When she came back to the room, he was staring out of the window.

"Chamomile," she said as she handed over the mug. "I hope it helps."

He accepted the cup and balanced it on his knees, Hermione made a face, worrying about him scalding himself, but he barely looked at her.

"Why have you come here?" he asked wearily, and Hermione tapped her foot against the carpet to release some of her nervous energy.

"I hope you'll forgive me," she replied, trying not to shred her lip with her teeth. "But I am not sure I have a complete answer for that."

He rubbed a hand over his eyes and then sat up again, finally turning away from the window. "Go on," he encouraged, and Hermione nodded, mentally running through her vague plans for this conversation.

"Firstly I should tell you that I… I don't believe Sirius Black murdered James and Lily Potter."

To her surprise, he scoffed. "Of course he's innocent. Sirius would no more have murdered James and Lily than he would have murdered me."

Realisation chewed at Hermione's stomach, and she closed her eyes. _Shit, shit, shit_.

"You're the other friend?" she asked, and his gaze narrowed. "A friend of mine remembered your name from a case file," she replied ambiguously. "Though he didn't know who you were. You were only mentioned once, as someone who had been interviewed at the time. We had very little detail to work on; most of the files have been heavily redacted."

"Figures," he mumbled derisively, and Hermione sat forward, putting her cup down on an over-laden coffee table.

"Why did you never say anything at the time?" she asked. She hoped she didn't sound _too _accusing, but then again, _maybe he deserved it?_

"At first, I believed it," he replied shortly as he crossed his arms over his chest. Hermione recognised the look he had on his face. It was the same one Sirius had when she had asked him about the past. Mournful and concentrated, as if the memories took work to bring to the surface.

"But then, as I swam out of the pound of grief and self-loathing I had fallen into, I began to realise the official version of events had to be wrong. Too many things didn't make sense. By that time, Sirius had already been inside for more than six months. I have never been allowed to visit because of our previous connection. So I did what was within my power to do, it was less than I should have done, I started to ask questions. Then things started happening."

"What things?"

Mr Lupin smiled wanly. "You may find this unbelievable, looking at me now, but I was once seen as something of a bright light, academically speaking. I was a professor at an elite university, the youngest in my department. I had a book deal, of all things, and I was releasing two research papers a year."

A dark shadow fell over Mr Lupin's face, and Hermione felt a chill move up her spine. "Then, my work started to get discredited, and then the university started receiving letters."

Hermione had no intention of pressing him more. She didn't need to know the particulars. She'd hoped coming here would give her a better understanding of what she was getting herself into. Sadly, she was correct.

"Your school year must have been incredibly successful," she commented, trying to move the conversation on. "Two government operatives, a professor and the Prime Minister no less."

"Three," Mr Lupin muttered. He had gone back to glancing out of the window. Hermione couldn't imagine what had transfixed him. She'd put money on her arrival being the only thing to happen out here for days.

"I'm sorry?" she asked, and he stiffened as if she had startled him.

"Three government operatives," he confirmed. "Lily, James and Sirius, they all started MI6 at the same time."

Hermione managed not to swear out loud, but it was a close thing. Just… _fuck!_

Mr Lupin seemed not to notice her sudden angst. He carried on sipping his tea as if nothing monumental had just happened.

"Work is harder to come by now," he said, gesturing towards the room at large as if to explain his circumstances. "I do a lot of things by correspondence."

Hermione took a swig of her drink and hoped it would drown out the scream that wanted to burst from her throat. If she suddenly started believing in fate, as Harry had conveniently done, maybe that could explain why she had been compelled to visit Remus Lupin. There was a strangely Dickensian narrative to coming to his home and being shown what her future could be like. Yet, Hermione knew that when she woke up tomorrow, her predicament wouldn't be solved by ordering a large turkey and giving Tiny Tim a gift.

"Why did you need to see me?" Mr Lupin asked eventually. He looked like he'd aged during their conversation and Hermione tried to feel bad for him, but she wasn't sure she quite managed it.

"I would give you testimony," he continued. "But I'm afraid it would be hardly worth the paper you printed it on."

"No, I…" Hermione started, trying to find the words to explain herself. "I needed to check, with people that knew them that I wasn't going mad before I…"

"Before you pursued it?" he offered, and Hermione nodded.

"You're a braver person than me," he said wistfully, and Hermione plastered on the most brittle smile of her life.

"So people tell me."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a card, hesitating only briefly before handing it over. Remus Lupin eyed it curiously before looking at her.

"It's a number for Harry James Potter," she explained without emotion. "I think you should reach out to him."

Hermione got to her feet without ceremony. She was strangely looking forward to the long walk back to civilisation; it would give her time to think.

* * *

The _Flower Pot _was a pub come bistro that Hermione frequently found herself in for a quiet after-work drink. It was never especially busy, the rest of the clientele kept to themselves, and it was the sort of place you could guarantee that no one would remember you arriving or leaving.

Pansy Parkinson was sat at the back of the main room, noisy tearing through an article in a competitor newspaper with a frown on her face.

"You made it then?" she said in lieu of greeting and Hermione waved over a waitress. She was going to need a drink to get through this and keep a civil tongue in her head.

"Sorry I'm late," she said as graciously as she could manage and sat down. _It was only five minutes after all_.

Pansy finally looked up from the paper and folded it neatly before tossing it aside.

"A favourite of yours?" Pansy asked derisively as she looked around at the sparse decor and sleepy patrons. "Why am I not surprised?"

Hermione tried not to roll her eyes. It had been a long time since she had _willingly _subjected herself to Pansy's company. They had been at school together, and while they could never have been described as friends, they often ran in the same circles now they were both grown up. They rubbed along together tolerably, for the most part, apart from the fact that Pansy was an unbearable snob and Hermione had a deep hatred for her chosen profession, even though she could concede Pansy was brilliant at it. She supposed that made her a hypocrite of this worse kind.

Hermione knew she was fucked just by arranging the meeting in the first place. But after going around and around with it in her head, she had finally given up. She had to admit that this was her best option.

"I think I have a story," she said after the waitress had delivered her wine and Pansy rolled her eyes.

"You think?" The _why else would we be having a drink together?_ remained unsaid, largely because it was written all over Pansy's perfectly made up face.

Hermione bit her lip. "Sirius Black," she offered softly, and Pansy's eyes narrowed in thought.

"Why do I know that name?"

Hermione reached into her bag and handed over a slim stack of case files supplemented with her own notes with a heavy heart. She had put all of the documents into plain manilla files. The government logo embossed folios remained at home, mocking her from her desk.

As much as what she was doing was tearing at her, professionally speaking, Hermione also felt a pang of much more personal guilt. Her own notes were heavily reliant on information Sirius had given her on his history. He may have known she was interviewing him, but he hadn't consented to _this_. Hermione felt like she had violated his trust. The twinge in her chest felt all the worse for not knowing if she would ever be able to ask for his forgiveness.

Pansy opened the first of the files and skimmed through page after page of covertly copied government intel. It was scant, but it was there in black and white. Sirius Orion Black was convicted in 1993 of killing James Potter, Lily Potter and then Peter Pettigrew as well as a group of unsuspecting innocent bystanders. After Harry had given her Remus Lupin's name, the near recluse had helped her piece together more of their history.

Hermione had tried to keep Harry away from it, though she had told him she was meeting with a journalist. He'd asked to come today, but Hermione had refused. She was already in it up to her neck; there was no reason for them both to take a fall.

Pansy sipped her wine and ripped through the pages hungrily.

"I've met him, and I think he's innocent," Hermione declared, and Pansy stared her down incredulously.

"Innocent men go to jail all the time Hermione," she replied with a shrug. "I'm sure that eats at your social-justice loving heart, but it doesn't make it national news."

"It does," Hermione began, and she didn't wince when Pansy tried to protest. "When nearly everyone involved works for the government in some respect."

Pansy clucked her tongue but otherwise didn't respond. She kept turning pages until she got to the last stapled stack. Hermione knew what she would find there.

"Potter's parents?" she asked disbelievingly. It was the most aghast Hermione had ever seen her look.

Hermione's fingers bit into the edge of the table. "Harry has nothing to do with this," she insisted firmly.

"If you say so," Pansy scoffed ." You always were determined to be a martyr, Granger, who am I to stand in your way."

Hermione hated that she didn't have a retort; you _always_ had to have a response with Pansy. If you didn't knock her off her perch now and again, she came back to hit you twice as strong.

"I am assuming you would like _your name_ kept out of this?"

"I would prefer it," Hermione confirmed. "Though I imagine that won't help me at the office."

"Probably not," Pansy agreed dispassionately. "Evidence or need I ask?"

"Nothing," Hermione replied.

"Of course."

Hermione shrugged. "It would hardly be good journalism if I gave you everything."

Pansy rolled her eyes but otherwise ignored the barb. "What's in this for me?"

Hermione sighed. "A pretty big scoop if I'm right, and you know me, I usually am. He's been locked up for an indefinite term; already twelve years served in maximum security. I can't find any information that would suggest the case ever went to trial."

"Wow," Pansy said shortly. For her, the one word was equivalent to a gasp of surprise from anyone else. Hermione could feel that she was interested and that she wanted to run with it; she just needed one more little push.

"He's from a well to do family. There is more than just dry as bones political corruption here. The human interest factor would be off the charts."

Hermione felt nauseous 'selling' the case like that as if she were pitching the premise for a Lifetime movie, but she was too far gone to pull back now. Even newspapers had their uses and Pansy was the only journalist Hermione trusted even a little bit. If she wasn't interested in getting to the bottom of it, Hermione wouldn't know where to go next.

After a second look through all of the pages, Pansy suddenly stood, shuffling the documents and stuffing them back into the stretched out file.

"Well I would say it's been a pleasure, but you would know I don't mean it."

"Quite," Hermione replied.

"I'll look into it," she Pansy said. "No promises."

Then she got some sunglasses out of her bag and pushed them onto her face, despite the fact they hadn't had a sunny day for over a week.

Hermione waited until she left and then ordered herself another glass of wine.

* * *

It took three months for Pansy to weave her own very particular brand of magic. Three months where Hermione did her job, paid her bills and tried to behave as if all was well. As if she hadn't handed copies of secure government case files to a journalist. Secure government case files that she was probably the only one to have accessed - save the Prime Minister - for some years.

A little voice in her head whispered from time to time that she _could_ have attempted to handle it internally. She could have gone to her boss with her concerns. Hermione was jaded enough already to know that it wouldn't have gone anywhere. All roads would have put her right where she was now, whatever happened. It didn't make Hermione feel any better.

The morning the paper arrived with details of Sirius' case splashed all over the front page, Hermione took an extra long shower and then read every word. Peter Pettigrew was, according to Pansy, a treasonous opportunist who had blown his friends' cover in exchange for cash. That cash had been parlayed into drugs and weaponry, as favours to his _other _friends, ones all in the wrong places. Pansy had been intelligent enough to never accuse the British Government of knowing this. Though she did postulate that the MoD had wanted the whole thing shut down, and that that directive resulted in no trial for Sirius and the prospect of a lifetime in prison.

Somehow, and who knew by what means, Pansy had found the supposedly dead Pettigrew, living out on some rural farm in the US breeding rats. As proof of innocent went, an alive 'murder victim' made for pretty strong grounds for appeal.

Hermione read the whole thing twice over and then put the newspaper in her bread bin so she wouldn't have to look at it. She was glad she hadn't attempted breakfast.

-/-/-/-

The story made the six o'clock news.

* * *

Hermione went back to picking a new subject #4 but then skipped it and went onto #5. She couldn't face the thought of an interview, not just yet, but she did all the preliminary work.

* * *

A few weeks later, Hermione was sitting in a formal boardroom at work, with her on one side and no less than fifteen of Her Majesty's greatest bureaucrats sitting opposite. She had never felt smaller. They'd been at it for an hour, and at this point, Hermione wasn't sure what else they wanted her to say. She'd already admitted to handing over the files.

"I understand your intentions were _probably_ honourable," her boss said, once again trying to temper the last outburst from the seething minister sitting next to him. "But this represents a significant security breach, and it is something we cannot ignore."

After multiple attempts to accuse her of far worse, Hermione was relieved that she would only be held accountable for her actions and not some insane dreamed up version of events where she was supposedly a spy in collision with a foreign superpower.

"I understand, Sir," Hermione said as clearly as she could. The weight of his disappointment fell harshly on her shoulders, and she hoped she would have become numb to it by the time she had to attempt to leave the room.

In the end, Hermione opted to take 'voluntary' redundancy as opposed to facing a full internal enquiry, and she was forced to send out a disgustingly cheery internal memo about 'new horizons' and the 'next chapter of her life'.

She left with her remaining things in a box an hour later. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, she'd been quietly taking home a lot of her accumulated possessions over the last few weeks.

Hermione took a final look around as she approached the lift and sighed. It was time to find a new dream.

* * *

Hermione stood in the middle of her study and eyed her groaning bookshelves. Almost every conceivable surface was covered with either a book or research papers, and now it was all useless.

Hermione dug into her handbag and found the key she'd barely had a call to use before. She stepped out and locked the door, and immediately her life felt a little darker.

For now, she told herself, _for now_.

* * *

Harry showed up three nights later. Hermione was tremendously relieved that she was not in pyjamas or drunk. It had been a rough week.

"Did you hear?" he exclaimed before he had even got fully through the door which Hermione moved to close behind him.

She found him in her kitchen, rocking in a chair and grinning so widely he looked like baby James.

"It's Sirius," he said. "He's getting out, his record is being cleared, and they're going to look into damages."

Hermione lowered herself into a chair and fiddled with her bracelet. It was done then.

"Did you… did you do this?" Harry asked in awe and Hermione grimaced.

_No, I was just the ignition strip. Burnt out and thrown away after it had completed its use. _

"No," she said, shaking her head. "You should speak to Pansy, she did a great job, I thought."

Harry managed almost wholly to suppress a glimmer of distaste, and then it was back to a coat hanger smile again.

"I have no idea how she managed it, and you know she'll never reveal her sources."

Despite herself, Hermione grinned. Harry's enthusiasm was contagious, and when he was in a good mood, there was almost no one on earth she would rather be around. He would have more family after this. A chance to have another person in his life, she couldn't begrudge his joy.

"Dinner soon?" he asked hopefully. "Just me and you? We haven't done that in forever, and we need to celebrate."

Hermione agreed happily, if not readily. She _had _missed Harry over the last few months. She hadn't quite realised until then just how much time they spent together. Suddenly reducing their interactions to a breakfast once a week and the occasional dinner had been tougher than Hermione had expected.

Harry charged out of the house as quickly as he came in. Thankfully he closed the door behind himself this time. Hermione stared at the wall for five whole seconds before she dropped her head to the table.

"Ow. Just… fuck that hurt."

She nearly said 'at least it's not raining', but knowing how this week was going Hermione was half sure a great gaping hole might appear in her roof, so she kept her mouth firmly shut.

* * *

The restaurant Harry had booked was a good deal fancier than Hermione was used to, and she was grateful that her friend had said he would pay, _as a treat_. It seemed silly to eat into her savings - literally - for something so frivolous, especially when she had no idea when she would be able to replenish the funds.

Hermione was unsurprisingly the first to arrive, and an overzealous waiter took her back to a private room. Thankfully, it was a little less opulent than Hermione had feared, so she knew she would be able to get through the dinner without worrying she was noticeably out of place. She had never eaten in a private room for just two people before, though she had to admit she rather liked it. Hermione wondered whether Harry still felt like they needed to be cautious, only when the door opened again it wasn't Harry that walked in.

Not two minutes after Hermione had put her bag down on the floor, Sirius Black filled the archway to the quiet dining area. It was a wonder she recognised him. He'd been a _free man_ for two weeks, or so she understood from Harry's almost hourly updates. He had stayed at the Potter's for a few nights and since then had moved in with Remus Lupin for a while, the last she heard he was looking to get his own place, closer to London. Hermione had wondered at his almost immediate desire for solitude, but re-emerging into society was no easy thing, and a house full of tiny Potters was no joke.

He still looked on the thin side, but his cheeks had lost that hollow look where a person's face would instantly remind you of the skeleton that laid beneath. Hair that a few months before had been dank and lifeless hung artfully around his shoulders. It was still as dark as it had been before, and so few people had completely black hair it made him all the more striking. Hermione wondered how he had worn it when he was younger.

The grey eyes were still the same, and they were just as piercing as ever.

"Hello, Sirius," she greeted as kindly as she could through her bemusement. She stood, swinging her legs out from under the table and reached out her hand.

Sirius looked down at it for a moment and then picked it up between both of his own and pressed a short kiss across her fingers.

"Hello _Hermione_, can I call you that?"

Hermione felt her heart in her throat as the heat from his lips seemed to climb from her hand to her chest and cheeks. "Yes, yes you can," she said eventually and then sat back down for fear of making an idiot of herself.

Sirius took off his immaculate peacoat and hung it on a peg behind them. When he sat down, Hermione was filled with a deja vu from another dimension. They were sat across from each other, again, but this time there was no rickety table or paperwork between them. The walls weren't grey. There were no chains.

Everything here was clean, bright and new.

The one thing that hadn't changed was the power dynamic. It had always been something Hermione had to be conscious of in her line of work. She had to make sure that inmates never tried to dominate her, and at the same time, she undertook that she would not do so either, less it hindered their trust. Strange as it was, given their circumstances, Hermione had felt equal with Sirius from their first meeting, and she felt the same feeling now. He was hesitant like he had been before, but Hermione supposed he had reason to be.

"I hope you don't mind me taking over your dinner with Harry," he said as he idly flicked through a leather-bound menu in front of him. "He said he was meeting you and I… I asked if I might get some of your time."

Hermione didn't know what to say. Her tongue felt stuck to the top of her mouth, and so she nodded. Sirius must have sensed her predicament, and he reached over to the side of the table and poured her a large glass of water before pressing it into her fingers. The mirroring of the action wasn't lost on her, and Hermione squeezed his hand in gratitude before she could stop herself.

"Is that better?" Sirius asked after Hermione had taken a long swig and she delicately wiped a finger across her lips.

"Yes, thank you," she replied before setting the glass back down. "I suppose I'm just a bit surprised and… maybe… overwhelmed."

When the waiter came back in then to take their orders, and Hermione almost sighed. It wasn't as if she was afraid to be alone in the room with Sirius, but at the same time, she felt vulnerable in a way she hadn't before. Hermione had spent her personal and professional life striving for greatness and never letting her guard down apart from with a few choice individuals. Even with people she knew as well as Harry, Ron and Ginny, she tempered herself. That didn't feel possible sitting across from Sirius. One look from him and Hermione felt like she was cleaving open, ready to bare her soul and share all of her darkest secrets. She felt so exposed it was as if the emotion was radiating from her pores. Yet, at the same time, she knew _somehow_ that he would treat her kindly, which was almost as scary as the alternative. There would be nowhere to hide with a kind man that knew all of her secrets.

The waiter bustled away again and left the door open, but Hermione couldn't think of a single thing to say to ease the silence. Instead, she focused on Sirius' shirt. It was a dark burgundy colour, and he had pushed the cuffs up to his elbows so she could see the sinewy expanse of his forearms. It was unbuttoned down to the centre of his chest which revealed a few more tattoos that he had hidden. His long hair grazed along his collar, and Hermione thought she could see a few vague hints that he was wearing a long chain underneath.

She took a deep breath as the waiter came in again with a tray and their drinks. Sirius must have given the nod to turn their wine order into a bottle and Hermione was grateful though she had no recollection of him saying anything about it.

Eventually, the waiter made some speech about their meals, Hermione barely heard about their 'excellent selections' and how long the food would be before he disappeared, shutting the door behind him this time.

Sirius topped up the wine from the measly measures the waiter had poured and then clinked their glasses together.

"I suppose if we are going to have dinner together, we should try having some conversation," he said, not unkindly, and Hermione took a large sip of her drink.

"I erm… I think we should," she replied. The _you start_ lingered underneath her words as her trepidation was evident.

Sirius pulled his seat forward and reached over the table to move the large floral arrangement that was in the centre to the side.

_Nowhere to hide._

"I've thought a lot about.. what to say to you," Sirius said as he regarded her intently. "I've written speeches in my mind that must go on for pages but I… just… thank you. That's really what I want to say, _thank you._"

Hermione assumed she was destined to be a weeping bucket in front of this man for the rest of time, though he hadn't seen that from her before. Sirius had only been there two minutes, and Hermione could already feel her eyes beginning to mist.

"I don't want you to be deceived," she asserted as she pushed her long curls back off her shoulders, so they fell down her back. "I really didn't do anything. Pansy is the one who…"

"I've spoken to Pansy," Sirius interjected unexpectedly. "She was… a lot less _reluctant_ than you to take credit."

Hermione grinned. "She's rather annoyingly wonderful like that isn't she? Don't get me wrong, me and her are not close or anything, most of the time I think she's one of the worst people I've ever met, but there is something about her honesty that's so…"

"Refreshing?" Sirius offered with a raised brow, and Hermione agreed. "I liked her."

"I'm glad. She did an amazing job."

"She did," Sirius concurred, "but that's just it Hermione, she did _her job_, you, on the other hand, you must see what you contributed to this?"

Hermione shrugged and fiddled with the impossibly delicate stem of her wine glass. "I'm only a Psychologist, Sirius."

"Well, forgive my language, but you must be a fucking good one," he said, sounding harsher than she had ever heard him. "Probably the best I've ever met. You were the _only_ one who believed what I had to say, and I understand from Harry you spend enough time around people like me to hear the _innocent defence _a fair bit."

"Not around people like you," Hermione countered softly. "You aren't like them."

"I could have been," he replied darkly, and Hermione watched his face contort. "I… I didn't have a very good start in life. There was a lot of rage in me as a young man, still is, probably. I don't… I don't want you to think that I'm…"

"I understand, Sirius."

"You do?"

"I think so," Hermione confirmed as she crossed an arm over her body.

The first course arrived, and it looked every bit as lovely as the waiter was saying it would be. Hermione hoped she could eat it.

"You lost your job?" Sirius said, it was a statement not a question, and Hermione's heart sank.

"Does Harry know?"

"Not yet. I hope it will all be sorted before Harry has a chance to find out. I've only met him four times, as an adult, and it's already pretty clear he has a considerable guilt complex."

Hermione could agree with that. "I thought I was the shrink?"

Sirius smiled, it spread across his face like an early autumn sunrise and Hermione nearly bit through her tongue as she chewed.

"I've had a meeting with Kingsley," Sirius divulged, clearly watching for her reaction. "When we finished, I asked if he could direct me to your department, what followed was a rather stammering account of why you weren't there."

"I can imagine," Hermione replied. Though she couldn't, not really, she wasn't sure she had ever seen Kingsley Shacklebolt unnerved.

"The government is quite keen to get back in my good graces," Sirius said with a corresponding stab of his fork. There was no need for Hermione to ask what his current thoughts were on the people running the country.

"With the red tops and the broadsheets clambering to get an interview, I've agreed to limit what I will reveal if they agree to certain stipulations of my own. The first of which is that I've asked for you to be reinstated."

Hermione's fork clattered to the table, and she winced when she saw the red sauce that she had been devouring splattered all over the table cloth that probably cost more than her entire linen collection.

"Sirius," she said, but she didn't know what else to say. A single tear dropped down her cheek before her overworked eyelids could stop it. She felt so stupid. This situation hadn't precisely endeared positive feelings towards her former employer and yet, how could she help at all if she was now on the outside?

Sirius pushed back his chair and threw his napkin next to his plate. Hermione couldn't work out what was going on, and then suddenly he was next to her, kneeling beside her chair. His eyes stared up at her pleadingly, and Hermione felt another of those cracks appear inside of herself, the ones that would let all of her darkness out.

Both of his hands cradled her face as one of his warm, calloused thumbs wiped her tear away. The impossibly soft gesture caused three more to fall, and he removed them just as gently.

"I shouldn't have interfered," he admonished himself, "not before I had spoken to you."

"It's not that," Hermione said. "Thank you."

_She'd never meant the words more._

She wasn't exactly dry-eyed now, but the tears had stopped leaking from her eyes unchecked, and yet Sirius remained on his knees by her side.

"You're really beautiful, you know," he whispered. "Too beautiful for a place like this."

Hermione looked up at the art deco chandelier, and the black and gold lined walls and let out a wet chuckle even as she flushed. One of his hands fell from her heated cheeks and then gripped her hand that was prone on her lap.

"Can I take you to dinner?" he asked with an urgency she wasn't expecting as if he was fixing to drag her from the room.

"Sirius, we're at dinner."

"A proper one," he countered. "One where I don't feel like I've ambushed you into accepting my company?"

"I…"

He squeezed her hand and then got back up to his feet. Hermione felt bereft and then elated as he picked up his chair and moved it closer to hers, dragging around his plate and drink.

"Do you mind if I…?" he started belatedly. "It just… it feels nice, to be close to you."

"Yes," Hermione managed to affirm before she did her best to resume eating her dinner as if she couldn't almost detect the heat of his thigh under the table.

"I thought about you.. after you left for the first time," he admitted. "Before I ever thought I would get out. I hated you at first."

Hermione nearly choked on her food and Sirius' eyes widened, and he moved to help her, but she held him back with a single hand before she managed to swallow.

"It's okay," she managed to stutter out roughly. "Please continue."

He looked unsure for a moment, so Hermione pressed. "I would like to hear your honest thoughts if you are happy to share them?"

Sirius stared at her before he finally nodded and Hermione pushed her plate away, not wanting to risk any more disasters.

"I think I was as close as I could have been to accepting my fate, and then _you_ appeared. You smelt so good and looked so perfect… I'm not sure I can explain it. You made the air around you cleaner like you snuffed out the poison that was in that place just by existing."

"By the time you came back a second time, I had halfway convinced myself I imagined it, my reaction to you. Then you were there with this pretty pink top on, looking so much more real and full of life. If anything, my reaction was stronger. Then you said my name, so hesitantly, but it… it sounded so lovely coming from your lips. It reminded me of who I was before... all of this. Before I started blaming myself for everything."

"I'm not an angel of mercy, Sirius," Hermione protested softly. "I'm a real person, with faults and excentricities just like the rest. Neither of us will benefit from you thinking of me in such a way."

"I'm not delusional," Sirius bit out looking affronted, but only a moment later he seemed to calm. "I know who you are."

"We've barely spent any time together."

"And yet, wouldn't you say you feel like you know me too?"

Hermione didn't respond to the challenge, but she averted her eyes, which was answer enough.

"I've known women like you before, Hermione Granger. The good ones, the challenging kind, the 'break a few eggs to make a good omelette' kind. I steered clear when I was younger because I told myself that wasn't the right fit. That they were too much work and I wasn't good enough. But when I was in my cell, and I thought you were gone forever, I said to myself if I ever had my chance to do it again, I would do something about it."

"It was an easy promise to make. I was sat in a cell with no chance of escape. There was no one _telling_ me to do it. But I'm here now."

Sirius raised a hand from the table and then hesitantly placed it over hers. His palm was large, warm and reassuring.

"I know you don't know much about me - not specifics in any case - and what you do know isn't favourable, but I would like a chance to change that if you'll let me?"

"Because you think you owe me?" Hermione asked quietly, and Sirius' head snapped towards her.

"No," he protested hotly. "If it was just that I would have cut you a cheque. _This is different_."

"Loyalty," he said as if weighing the word in his mouth. "It was once something I held very dear. It has value. You have mine now, and you have _me_, for whatever you want."

More tears fell from Hermione's eyes, and she coughed a little to try to hide the fact that she felt shredded on the inside. She wasn't sure she was worthy of this. But she wanted it all the same.

"So will you let me take you for dinner? We can go somewhere ridiculously expensive, and you can throw forks all over the tables until the carpets are red and mottled. We'll find a room worthy enough to hold your presence and eat and drink for too much. The government is paying after all."

"Yes, I'd like that," Hermione agreed easily and then took a breath and sorted her face out.

Sirius grinned a full smile that seemed to overtake his whole face. His spine seemed to relax, and in turn, Hermione felt like she could function easier even as her heart began to race.

"You're quite devastating, you know, when you smile like that," she admitted, and Sirius' eyes twinkled in response. There was a hint of long-dormant mischief there that should have worried her, but it was too late for that.

"I'd been told, a long time ago," he said. "It's gratifying to know it works on you though."

Their meal over, Hermione made to stand up so she could use the bathroom before they left. She never got fully out of her seat. His arm jutted out, halting her progress as she hoovered in thin air.

"Sorry," he said, sounding weary and embarrassed. "Would you mind sitting back down?"

Hermione slowly retook her seat and then anxiously laid her palm against his upper arm. "Sirius, is everything okay?"

He sucked in a deep breath and then looked at her, faintly smiling when he saw her hand on him. "This is going to sound weird, or maybe not, given your profession, but would you mind letting me get up from the table first?"

"If that's what you need," Hermione said patiently.

"Thank you I… watching you walk away from the table… It's a bit… it's like when we were back there… it makes me feel panic."

"Why don't we stand together?" Hermione offered, and he seemed to mull it over briefly before nodding his head.

"Yes, that would… that would work."

When they got to their feet, Hermione grabbed her coat, and Sirius held it out for her so she could put it on.

When they went to leave the room, he reached out to clutch her hand. "This okay?"

"Yes, I think it's good," Hermione replied. "I think it's really good."


End file.
